


Poaching

by Gryphonrhi



Series: Aidan-verse 2: The Line War [9]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Discussion of emotional abuse, Discussion of physical abuse, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Line Ramirez is a randy bunch, Multi, Plot Twist, Plotty, Polyamory, Threesome - F/M/M, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000, student teacher relationships, sword fights
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:02:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 51,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a treatise on the care and feeding of new immortals....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poaching

**Author's Note:**

> This one is pretty self-contained, but if you're confused try starting at First Harvests or Absent Companions.  
> This story contains discussion of both physical and emotional abuse. The people discussing it are working on patching it back up, mind.

It began as it always began:  a sudden sharp pain behind his temples, like a spike hammered completely through his head in one blow.  Marc shook it off, determined and practiced.  The pain was an old acquaintance after the last two years and he refused to be distracted.  From the concealment of the shadows he watched the young white woman study the alley and frowned.  _Shouldn't she be more nervous?_

Instead, she scanned the dimly lit area carefully, a thoughtful frown drawing creases between dark eyebrows in a pale face.  A navy great coat barely contained the blaze of red blouse and chocolate-brown jeans and her calm, clear voice carried well as she spoke.  "We don't have to do this, you realize."

Despite himself Marc answered her.  It gave away too much of his cover in the shadows, probably, but he wasn't planning on staying there either.  "Oh, right.  Isn't your next line supposed to be, 'Want some candy, little boy?'  Nose candy, I suppose."

She shook her head slowly and replied, "No, not at all.  My next line is, 'The Gathering is not yet.'  Nose candy?  Who do you think you're challenging?  Or are you challenging?"

"Jennifer Merriweather," he said grimly.  "And it's challenge all right, lady."  In his mouth the ancient title of respect took on a biting contempt that stung like the cold wind whipping between the brick buildings.

"Jennifer, hmm?"  She shook her head again, apparently bemused, and said quietly, "I hate slaughtering children.  Do you truly have to do this?"

"Next you'll tell me you aren't Jennifer?  I don't have time for this.  This alley's secluded enough; let's get it over with.  There can be only one."  Marc stepped out of the shadows into what little sunlight the clouds were allowing, moving carefully over the snow and ice still there.  His tall, slender height made the pale shadow look enormously elongated, incredibly unreal.  The outline of his katana only added to the surreal aspect of the scene.

The dark haired woman sighed quietly and answered, "No, not necessarily.  Very well, let's do this."  With those words, her unconcern vanished, a magician's cloak swirled away to reveal the true subject underneath.  Her hiking boots had no trouble getting traction on the ice and two blades simply seemed to materialize in her hands as she lunged at him. 

Marc struck at her once, a diagonal overhead blow across her body... only to find himself slammed against a wall, out of breath, disarmed, and his arm screaming with pain.  A long sharp lightning bolt of agony etched its way straight up his forearm and biceps into the armpit.  The dagger which had laid his arm open suddenly lay against his throat, wisps of steam rising up from his own blood on the blade.

"Yield, boy."  The brick against his back was more yielding than her tone, but there was no hatred in her steady gaze.  "Give over and give parole."

That stopped his breath with surprise.  "Parole?"  From so close he could see clear grey eyes watching him intently, calm and level.

"Parole.  You give me your word not to attack me and I agree to stand protection over you for the duration of your parole.  In this case, two hours."  She studied him carefully in return, apparently hunting for something in his soul... and not finding it?  "Of course, your other option is to refuse.  I don't know what I'll do with you in that case."

"Take my head," Marc answered bitterly, hand fisting against the pain of his arm.  He couldn't afford to worry about that, though.  Not now.  "You're good."

"You have no idea," she murmured.  "And taking your head, while not the last thing I would do, is very close to the bottom of the list.  Will you give parole for the next two hours?"

"And when it's over, then what?  You just kill me?"

"Were that what I wanted," she said gently, "you would be dead already.  At the end of two hours, I give you your sword back, and tell you to walk. Most like I'll give you an hour's freedom of my blade, thirty minutes if you've been particularly obnoxious.  But you'll have a truce period in which to walk away.  I don't want your head."

 _This is too good to be real_ , Marc thought.  But the wall was cold, and the terror sweat which had broken out at the first touch of blade to throat was freezing against his skin.  "Your word on it?" he asked, trying for a brave front.  He had a sinking suspicion, though, that he looked as frightened as he felt.

To her credit, the woman in front of him simply answered, "Yes.  My word on breath and name.  Will you give your parole for the next two hours?  In return I pledge you your blade's return at the end of that time, my protection throughout, and an hour's truce thereafter."

Marc shivered at the oddly formal wording.  She sounded like some of the Catholic liturgies, all rolling, connected phrases and binding promises.  It was a damn sight better offer than he had ever imagined being given, however, and beat the hell out of losing his head.  "Yes, I give my parole."

"So."  The blade came away from his throat, the blood whipped off into the air in a practiced motion before she resheathed the heavy dagger in her coat.  "Your name?"

"Marcus."  He paused, uncertainty crossing that young face as manners tried to reassert themselves after two years of atrophy.  "Marcus Scipio."

She glanced up at him in surprise.  "Truly?"  With a swift motion of one foot she swept his katana up into the air and caught the hilt neatly.  "A formidable name, and one well-suited to the Game.  Come with me."

Marc stared after her as she walked ahead of him, heading back into the building she had exited not five minutes earlier.  Every immortal gave off a presence, he knew that.  But he'd never felt emotions carried on that presence before, and he could almost taste her mingled interest and annoyance.  Even more strange, she was trusting a strange immortal at her back?  One who had just tried to kill her?

He was out of options, though.  He'd paid for the hotel room through tonight, but he'd only been given so much money for this hunt.  He'd run out at dinner, and that had been at a McDonalds.  His teacher had said Marc couldn't come back until he'd 'proved his worth,' so he'd pushed the challenge this morning, before lack of food made a beginner's skill with blade even weaker than it already was.  Two hours of listening while she talked wouldn't hurt him, and it might let him sit someplace warm and try to figure out what to do next.

The female immortal stood at the door into the building, watching his face.  When Marcus headed toward her with a long-legged stride, she managed -- mostly -- to repress her smile of amusement.  Out loud she only said, "Coming?"

"Yeah," he answered. "I gave you my word.  So what happens now?"

The door closed behind him and the revealed room was, for starters, blessedly warm after the freezing air outside.  It looked like any bar that didn't cater to the yuppie crowd.  No fern would make it ten minutes in here, and he strongly suspected there were no little pink paper umbrellas behind that utilitarian bar.  The heavy wood bar itself was well-polished, however.  The brass fixtures gleamed, the vinyl floor was neatly swept, and the air didn't reek of stale, second-hand smoke.  In college, Marc had spent long nights in places that looked like this, drinking away the hours and arguing theories of art and architecture until entirely too late in the morning.

The woman turned those expressive grey eyes on him and said cheerfully, "Well, to begin -- Joe!!"

As she called for someone in the back of the bar, Marc stared at his sword and flinched minutely.  His voice carefully diffident, he asked, "Don't you need to put that away?"

The katana splashed light against the walls as she idly considered it from different angles.  "No, not really.  Joseph?" she called again

An amused, husky voice answered, "Hold your horses, Aidan, I was sitting down.  Aren't you supposed to be gone already?  Does Mac know you're cutting classes?"  An older man walked out, leaning slightly on the cane he flourished with each step.  Keen eyes studied Marc, then he nodded once in approval before he saw the blade in Aidan's hand.  "Collecting again?"

"No.  And I'll call Mac about the class.  However, my young friend here is in need of hot, fresh coffee and a rather large meal.  Let's say that twenty ounce steak you've been advertising lately, the largest salad you can make, and it will have to be bread, it's too early for the baked potatoes, isn't it?"

Marc barely kept from whipping around; he did stare at her.  "You're feeding me?"

"You're under my protection, remember?  That means I have certain obligations.  In this case, food.  If you're a vegetarian, best speak up now, but Joe cooks a superb steak.  Or you would probably like the grilled chicken breast here.  Tony makes a lovely marinade."

With one hand the young man combed loose black curls back off his forehead and out of his eyes.  Those same amber eyes closed for a moment, as if to deny what they saw, then opened again.  "In that case, could I please have the steak, Joe?  Cooked medium?  And some kind of vinaigrette on the salad?"

Joe nodded and said, "I'll get you some bread and coffee as soon as I give Frank the order.  Rough times lately, huh?"

"A little bit," Marc heard himself admitting and stopped there before his voice could choke on the rise of unexpected emotions. _Oh, God, to be able to talk to my family just once...._

"Aidan, you want some more coffee?"

She held up one hand, a cell phone in the other.  "Gorgeous man?  It's me.  I know I said I'd teach the aikido class this morning, but something's come up.  I'm going to be busy for a few hours.  Forgive me?"  She laughed at the answer and went on, "Oh, certainly, sir, and cheap at the price.  No, I'll tell you over dinner, _mo cridhe_."  Another pause and then she went on, "I don't think so, but I'm at Joe's and I have the cell  phone.  I'll call you if there's a problem.  But while I'm thinking about it, do you remember asking me once about being from an African tribe?  I think we have one in town.  Can you call our friends and let them know?"  She listened intently, then nodded.  "Good.  I promise, I'll tell you before tonight, _muirnin_.  Good luck with the class."

Turning back to Joe, Aidan said, "Please, Joe, one of the huge cups with half milk, half coffee.  But Marcus and I need to talk, I fear."

Joe grinned at her.  "I won't even spike it, darlin'.  Too early in the morning for you."

"Hah!  But I do need all my wits about me.  Thanks, Joe."

"You and the old man," Joe laughed and headed behind the bar again.  "Do you two just think beer is a food group?"

"Joe?  It is.  It's a grain."  With her free hand Aidan waved Marcus toward a booth, taking pity on his shocked expression.  When he started to sit facing the doors, she stated, "Other side of the booth, if you would."  The katana ended up propped on the floor next to her seat.  Grey eyes watched sympathetically as he shivered across from her, one hand holding the slashed sleeve around his healed arm, but she continued to inventory him mentally.  What she saw both surprised and displeased Aidan.

Marcus Scipio -- and she wondered if that name was real -- stood easily five or six inches taller than her own five foot eight inches.  With that build, he should have carried at least twenty-five pounds over her own weight.  Instead he was currently five pounds under. If not more.  Someone had not treated the boy well.

A young immortal, very young, not more than five years and possibly no more than a few months -- but someone had gotten him a very good blade.  _No wonder he followed me.  I wouldn't willingly leave my sword, either.  Of course, young men rarely like to step away from challenges, either.  But someone_ , she reflected, _has been training you imperfectly at best.  You have a teacher, definitely;  someone set you on this 'Jennifer Merriweather.'  Who?  And why?_

Because, oh, yes, someone was training him -- but so ineptly that it had to be deliberate.  Marcus possessed a fair bit of innate grace, but those long arms should have been much more dangerous with a blade.  Instead he had left himself far enough open that Rich could probably have taken his head after his first month's training with Duncan.  Marcus' gold-brown skin looked sallow grey, instead of any healthy color, and the hollows under his cheekbones and the darkness under his eyes made her wonder just what kind of leash the young man had been on... and whether it could be severed.

Her opening comments surprised Marc immensely, and relieved him at the same time; that searching grey gaze had been very difficult to bear with any equanimity.  "What exactly were you told about Jennifer Merriweather?  I should tell you, by the way, that I've never used that name."

"You what?"  Marc had no doubt in his mind that it was the truth.  Something in the wry commiseration of her voice told him she hadn't lied.  "Oh, God.  I challenged the wrong woman?"

"My name isn't Jennifer Merriweather," came the quiet reply.  "That does not mean you weren't to challenge me.  But let's come back to that.  I write.  Occasionally I work on gemstones, or teach martial arts classes, or fill in at Seacouver University.  What did you think I do for a living?"

Marc shuddered and reached gratefully for the distraction of the coffee which arrived at that moment.  Joe brought out two huge mugs, one full of black coffee, the other the paler color of _café au lait_ , and produced cream and sugar from the apron he now wore.  "Here you go, Marc.  And one large basket of rolls and butter."  The bartender's candid hazel gaze somehow reassured the young immortal.  "Take it easy, all right?  I'll get you the rest of your food when it's ready.  Aidan...."

She smiled at him.  "It will be fine, Joe.  Somehow, some way."

"I'll leave you two alone then.  Do you need to use my office instead?  Remember, woman, we open up in half an hour."

"Right, Joe.  As soon as he eats, we'll move this.  Not a problem at all."  After the bartender had left, she waved at the food.  "Marcus -- eat."

For half a second he debated whether to answer her earlier question or eat.  His growling stomach answered for him, and Marc applied himself diligently to the bread, which was fresh and hot out of an oven.  After watching him devour the first two, Aidan started buttering the rolls for him and passing them over.  She made no comment on his gluttony, for which he was grateful, merely nodded when he held up a hand indicating he'd had enough for now.

Without a word she went behind the bar for the coffeepot and came back with it and two glasses of water.  She refilled both their mugs and took the pot back.  Only after Aidan sat down again did Marc realize that she'd turned her back to him both times, trusting him not to bolt solely on the basis of his word.  Very quietly he asked, "Who are you?  You're not the woman I was looking for."

"No, I rather think I'm not at all who you believed you were hunting.  My name is Aidan Logan.  From your comments, I assume you were told I deal in drugs?"  At his answering nod she continued, "No, that I've never done.  Well, medicinal, perhaps, but not what you meant by the word.  I've smuggled brandy, wool, cotton, fireworks, silk, slaves...."  A mischievous grin crossed her face as she added, "Escaping, that is."

Marc murmured, "Well, that's a relief."

"But I'm not a drug dealer.  So who were you told you were after?"

"I was looking for a drug-dealer and petty thief named Jennifer Merriweather; she's been in the Game for about ten years.  My teacher thought I could take her," the young immortal said hesitantly.

Aidan studied him thoughtfully, seeing the dark flush rising up in his face.  "You didn't truly want to issue a challenge, did you?"

"Honestly?  No, not really.  I mean, if she's dealing drugs, let the cops nail her, you know?  I'm not a cop, I'm just... one of us."  He stopped as Joe brought out a plate.  "Oh, God, I don't remember the last time I've seen a steak that big!"  Mouth-watering odors filled the air, and the young man was practically drooling as he took the first bite.

Joe grinned at his reaction and said, "I'll tell Frank you like it.  Aidan, you two need anything else before we open, go ahead and get it.  I'll be in the back for another fifteen minutes or so."

Aidan waited until Joe had gone, then said quietly to Marcus, "Been living on short rations lately?"

After a moment he admitted, "Yeah.  Pretty short."

"Go slow on the food then, no matter how good it smells.  No point in making yourself sick.  You can always take it with you and it's too cold outside for it to go bad even if you're walking."

Marcus started to bristle, taking offense at what he considered an insult to his intelligence, then he shut up.  She was letting him live, she could lecture if she liked.

Aidan concealed a smile as she watched him struggle with it and finally stay silent.  _Nice to see he has brains._   Settling back into the booth, she told him, "Go on, eat while the food's hot.  My questions can wait until you've gotten some solid food down that didn't come out of a fast food chain."

For the next few minutes, the only sounds were silverware on a plate, the clinking of spoons in coffee, and the wailing jazz and blues playing on the jukebox.  At last he looked up from his salad, having devoured about half the steak, and said quietly, "Can I ask you something?  My ears still work even when my mouth is full."  The ironic laughter in her eyes told him what she thought of that, but when Aidan only shrugged he went on, "Why are you feeding me?  I just tried to kill you."

Aidan laughed outright at that.  "Oh, Gods, Marcus, explaining that could take a week!  Since we don't have it -- and since I'm only talking until you finish eating--" and she gave a pointed glance at his food and unmoving fork, "the short answer is as follows.  I'm a Celt of the old school, so to speak.  You are under my protection, which gives me certain obligations toward you.  In this case, I need to give you shelter from the elements, namely this room; food and drink, which lie before you; and protection, which you have.  And you challenged me, yes, but that was not even a half-hearted attempt to take my head."

That drew a startled stare from Marc, who hastily bent his attention back to his food.  The steak tasted too appetizing to leave alone and he continued to work his way steadily through it despite her earlier warning against overeating.  The immortal woman watched him quietly, then began to speak.  "I have a few ideas about why you're here and what you were doing, but I think that needs to wait for the privacy of Joe's office.  Simpler to start telling you the rules of the Game and make sure you actually know what they are."

Over his startled look and protesting noise, Aidan continued, "You aren't obliged to challenge, you know.  When you get down to the rock-bottom basics, and that is usually the best place to start, there are only two irrevocable laws which cannot be broken.  Don't lose your head."

"Wait a second!  What about 'There can be only one'?" 

"What about it?  No one is certain of that, as it's never happened, and that rule may yet be broken.  It's a warning, Marcus, not a law.  Now, no fighting on Holy Ground, that's a law.  Breaking it will get you killed, and quite possibly everything for a dozen miles around.  It did last time."

Light brown eyes widened and he paused with his last bite of salad on its way to his mouth.  "Wait a second.  What do you mean?  Why can't we fight on Holy Ground?  You mean in a church?"

Aidan froze, going completely motionless.  In a voice of terrifying gentleness she asked, "Did no one tell you that one?"

"No," Marc answered uneasily.  "Should they have?"

Joe came out of the bar in time to hear Aidan's voice speaking in an implacably soft tone that raised the hair on the back of his neck.  "The Kurgan respected Holy Ground.  Kronos did.  Grayson left Darius on hallowed land for fifteen centuries.  Even Xavier St. Cloud wouldn't touch a man on Holy Ground.  And no one told you that fighting there will kill you and your opponent both, impartially, and the landscape around you?"

"It will what?! You have got to be putting me on!"

"The eruption of Mt. Vesuvius in 79 AD was the result of mixing two immortals, two weapons, and Holy Ground.  And I don't mean a church.  Any sanctified land, anything used to worship the Gods.  And that is any God," came the inexorable answer.  "Buddha, Christ, Satan, Allah, the loa, the ancestors:  it makes no difference.  Believe me or not as you choose, but it will kill you."

"Aidan," Joe broke in quietly, "I need to open the bar.  Marc, take the last of the steak with you, and one of you move that katana before the regulars start wondering what's up."

"I'm through, thanks," came the strained reply.  Joe nodded once and picked the plate up, having already decided to box it up for him.  Someone had been underfeeding the boy; he'd be hungry again soon enough.  Aidan scooped the sword up and gestured Marcus ahead of her toward the office.

Joe said casually, "Darlin', am I still invited for dinner tonight?"

Aidan raised an eyebrow, then translated the question and gave him full marks for subtlety.  Joe had a standing invitation and knew it, therefore the actual question was, 'Am I going to hear about this at some point?'

"I don't see why not, but let me get back to you."  She closed the office door firmly behind her, however, before saying, "Marcus, let's go back to the rules of the Game.  What did your teacher tell you?"

"There can be only one.  Fight one on one.  You have to fight when challenged.  Don't interfere in an ongoing challenge or they'll both try to kill me.  That was it.  Why?"  The closed room made him nervous, knotting his stomach and making his palms sweat.  Stressed nerves held under his control, but barely.  Whoever this woman was, she wasn't just ten years in the Game -- not fighting like that.

She sat there, one hand toying with the end of her braided hair.  With her coat off, he could see hair down to her waist, a brown so dark it was nearly black.  Finally Aidan looked up and spoke in a regretful voice.  "I promised you two hours.  I need more time than that if I'm to break this to you gently, but I don't know if you're willing to give it.  Are you?"

"Break what to me gently?  What in hell is going on?"

"That's what I want to tell you, but you're not going to like it.  I suspect we'd best go for the quick rip, then I'll see what I can do to bandage the wound properly."  She paused, obviously thinking about where to start, then went on.  "You haven't been immortal for more than five years, and I would bet it's been less than three years.  Whoever trained you provided a good quality sword, possibly because you know enough of art or history or weapons to know what you have, but you've no previous training in martial arts or dance.  Your footwork is abominable, and you tangle yourself in your own arms.  You're quick enough, with a long reach, and stronger than you appear, but whoever is teaching you to fight wants you to die young."

Marcus was staring at her in complete shock.  His skin paled even farther as the blood drained away; light brown eyes dilated almost black.  Only three words escaped him before he turned convulsively and stood with his back to her:  "I already did."

He wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly freezing again.  Strong hands clasped his shoulders from behind, and her voice held none of the impassive quality which had made her earlier words so deadly.  "I'm sorry, Marcus.  I should have taken that more slowly, but there's little time, I'm afraid.  Do you know what your teacher has done to you?"

Any words would give him away when his voice cracked so Marc only shook his head once.  Part of his mind braced him for the coming words, knowing that somewhere, again, he'd been betrayed.

Aidan said gently, "Marcus.  He gave you a physical description of this Jennifer, or a definite location where she could be found, or both, didn't he?"

"Yes."  The one word came out more steadily than he'd expected.  Reminding himself that he'd made it through two years of immortality and four years of college, Marc drew a deep breath and continued, "You look like the woman he described, and I was told to look here or at DeSalvo's Martial Arts."

"Lovely.  At least Dhonnchaidh wouldn't have taken your head, either.  Not unless you forced him.  Have you ever even heard of the Highlanders?  Duncan MacLeod or Connor MacLeod?"

"I've heard of Connor," he answered quietly.  "My teacher said he was impressive."

"Well, DeSalvo's Martial Arts is run by Connor's best student, Duncan.  The other Highlander. Same clan, different vintage, as Connor likes to put it."  She felt the soft laugh more than heard it and nodded.  Good, this was starting to ease his nerves a bit.

"Why DeSalvo's?  Is that just the name he's using?"

"No, the business was named that when Duncan bought it.  Can you sit back down or would you rather stand for this?"

"I'll stand."

After a moment's awkward silence, he went on, "Why should I believe you?"

Aidan kept her voice carefully level as she answered, "There is no reason you should.  But to the best of my knowledge, there is no reason you should not, either.  The more so because I'm only going to ask you the  questions.  You'll have to tell me what the answers are, Marcus."

The young black man turned around and faced her, his eyes remarkably steady on hers despite the strain he was under.  "What, you think you already know the answers?  Or that you can lead me to the answers you want to hear?"

"I think I'm old enough to have seen this before," Aidan answered calmly.  "And I believe that I know exactly what was going on, but I have an advantage over you.  My presence is strong enough that I can sense immortals at a greater distance than you can.  I've known you were out there for a day or so now, but you never approached me, so I waited to see what you'd do."

"You knew I was out there?"  Marc sat down on the short couch in Joe's office.  "I mean, I could feel you, but I didn't know....  Never mind.  I don't want to know that right now.  All right, ask your questions.  What the hell, you could have killed me.  I'll at least listen."

She chuckled at that.  "Killing you was the last thing I was going to do with an unknown immortal eighty yards or so away, Marcus.  Or did you know one was there?  Male, strong, perhaps two hundred and fifty to three hundred.  Sound familiar?"

That shot struck home, as she'd been afraid it would.  His eyes widened, mouth opening slightly as if to say something... and then he sat upright, drew a slow breath, and closed his mouth again.  "All right, that's your side of it," he finally said.  "What's your question?"

"Do I match the description of Jennifer Merriweather?" she repeated.

"Yeah, you do," he said firmly.  "Right down to the Range Rover you're driving."

"I see.  Do you truly think I sell drugs?"

"No.  I don't.  Doesn't seem your style, you know?  You're too straight-forward to be on drugs, and you're not cold-blooded enough to be selling them, or my head would be on the ground in that alley.  I don't think you're a petty thief, either.  You're clothes are too good, and your sword.  And Joe acts like you're an upstanding member of the local community.  Could be an act on his part, I guess, but it's damn short notice," Marc answered, calming down as she began to present the whole matter as a logic exercise for him to work.

"So.  If I'm not Jennifer Merriweather, who am I?  Why lie to you to get you to attack me?"  She waited while he thought about it, then gently said, "Try it from this angle.  Do you truly think you could beat me?"

He shuddered, shaking his head as he remembered her speed in the alley.  "God, no.  You're fast, faster than Christopher."

Aidan's chin came up, eyes narrowing slightly.  "Christopher?  Christopher Henslowe, by any chance?"

"Yeah...."  The syllable was almost dragged off his voice by Marc's hesitance.  "You know him?"

"Oh, I know of him.  We've not met.  Would this be that Christopher Henslowe trained by Owain Rhys-Tewdor?"

Her voice stayed calm, but the cold rage on her face lowered the room temperature, to Marc's wary mind.  Without thinking about it, he retreated to the careful formality which had always served him well when Christopher's temper was thin.  "Yes, ma'am.  Mr. Rhys-Tewdor trained Mr. Henslowe."

"That bloody bastard."  Aidan almost saw the pieces click down into place at last.  Without realizing it she spoke aloud, her tone almost wondering.  "Someone set Damien on Rich.  Someone hunted Mandisa across Ethiopia.  Someone hired spies to plague Connor and Kyra.  Trouble in my line, trouble in the rest of the line of Ramirez, immortals plagued, students challenged, trouble and discord fomented in every direction but by no one in particular....  Oh, Gods, Owain, what is worth this to you?  You insufferable, arrogant, bastard border lord, you're truly starting a line-war -- but why?"  By the last word her voice echoed in the office, not quite shouting.  "Why now, damn you?" 

Marc had pressed himself farther and farther back into the corner of the couch as she paced in what little space the office offered.  He knew she had no idea he was there at the moment; with any luck, it would stay that way.  What startled him and almost frightened him without his being sure why was the fact that she wasn't simply angry.  Aidan Logan sounded worried.  Distraught.  Not even for herself necessarily, that sounded like the anguish he'd felt when his life was stripped away from him.  She was anxious, he realized, about these other people.  This Connor, someone named Mandisa -- she thought they were going to be hurt or killed.

What caught his attention even more strongly, however, was the fact that she obviously knew Owain Rhys-Tewdor very well, but he didn't frighten her.  Personally, Marc was terrified of the man.  Without realizing it, at that moment his fear of Aidan Logan began to fade.  Whoever she was, whoever she was angry at... it wasn't him.  And she was at least loyal to her own folks, unlike his teacher.

When Aidan brought her attention back to Marcus, she winced at the body language.  From his huddled position on the couch, he was clearly afraid her temper would lash out at him, possibly physically.  _Just because immortals heal quickly_ , she thought acidly, _doesn't mean the injuries don't hurt.  Damn you, Christopher, have you ruined this boy?_

Out loud she said, "Marcus, my apologies.  I don't usually explode in public.  I'm running out of time, though, so listen to me.  If you couldn't beat me in a fight -- and I think we both know you couldn't -- then why did your teacher set you on me?"

Marc shivered as she finally arrived at the question he had dreaded.  His mind simply shut down, refusing to think about that, locking into a self-protective rut of questions.  _Why would he do that?  Why should I believe her that he did?  But why would he set me on someone without knowing who she was?_   The questions spun through his mind, none of them answered, each leading to the next, as a headache began to build, immortal or no.

Aidan saw him pale even further, mouth setting into a firm line as he tried to cope with that question.  It obviously wasn't working.  With each passing moment, his color was worse, his eyes fixed on nothing, and lines of pain deepening on his face.  She sat on the couch next to him and tried to redirect his thoughts.

"Marcus.  When is an immortal most vulnerable?"

Automatically he answered, "Right after we've taken a... quickening?"  His voice slowed, dragging out the last few words as he finally realized he'd been set up.  Without ever looking up, the young immortal said, "That's why you wouldn't kill me.  Why you haven't killed me.  You're afraid someone's here with me and they'll take your head the moment you take mine.  I came by myself, damn it!"

"No," she said gently.  "You did, and you didn't.  I have no doubt they abandoned you.  You look as if no one has fed you well in months, nor let you sleep properly either.  No one can study like that, Marc, not for any length of time.  Not even one of us.  But Marcus... you leave yourself open for blows.  Without leaving myself open for more than half a second I could have left you on your knees, watching my sword come down and wondering what happened.  And this is the man who you were calling teacher?  Look at yourself.  I ranted at someone who isn't here -- at the walls, for the love of the Lady.  And your immediate reaction is to try and camouflage yourself as part of Joe's couch."

After a moment's pause, Aidan said thoughtfully, "And you're the wrong color to be a ream of paperwork."

Marc stared at her for a moment, trying to see where she'd lost her marbles in that conversation.  A look around, though, convinced him that she was right; the only way to hide in this room was to disguise himself as a stack of papers or a loaded bookshelf.

When he looked a bit calmer, the immortal woman reverted to the original discussion.  "Marcus.  There is an unfamiliar immortal in town who was waiting within easy running distance.  Your teacher sent a barely trained immortal who doesn't like to challenge against a woman who is not the drug dealer you were hunting, but who fits her physical description.  You are badly trained, at least twenty pounds underweight, and not equipped for the weather.  Do you realize it took you ten minutes to stop shivering after you walked in the door?  What does this tell you?"

Marc shuddered, mind seizing up again, but he managed to force out the words, "You have a theory.  You tell me."

"Do you play chess?"

"Yes."

She nodded slowly, then said gently, "Marcus.  They never intended for you to make it in the Game.  You're badly trained, deliberately so I would have to say, misused and emotionally abused at the least, and badly equipped.  And most teachers don't set new students on other immortals.  In your case, it was a death sentence."

He swallowed, finally jarred out of his thoughts by those sorrow-filled words.  "Chess.  You're saying they were trading a... pawn?" and he shivered again, "for a... what are you, then?  A knight?  A rook?  Maybe a queen?"

"Yes, that's what I'm saying," Aidan answered, ignoring his other question.  "Marcus, most immortals don't do this to their students.  Truly."

"I suppose you'd know," he said tiredly.

Aidan would have preferred anger, or disgust, or sarcasm... anything except that resigned shock.  "I've trained twenty or so, so yes, I would."

His mouth shaped the word, 'Twenty?' but no sound came out.

Aidan perched on the sofa arm and held out her arms.  "Oh, kitling.  Come here."

Marc sat numbly for a moment, then moved into the hug.  For a long minute he was rigid against her, tensed against some blow that never came.  Gradually though, muscles remembered what it was to feel human contact again, friendly contact, and he relaxed, head settling against her shoulder.

There were no tears, which worried Aidan but didn't surprise her.  American culture put too much emphasis on machismo to her way of thinking; she hadn't expected him to cry on a strange female, although it would probably have done him a great deal of good to let it out.  The best she could do was to simply hold him until all the small shivers stopped, until his muscles eased and he rested against her, breathing finally evening out.  Even after that, she kept her arms wrapped loosely  around his chest.  The growing discomfort of her perch on the couch arm was ignored, as was the stiffness of her back from the way she curved around him.

When Marc looked up, Aidan was honestly surprised.  She had thought he'd fallen asleep.  "He'll kill me if I go back, won't he."  He stated it baldly, and despite his phrasing, it wasn't a question. 

She gave him the honest answer that calm deserved.  "I think so, yes.  What do you want to do?"

Marc sat up, pulling away from Aidan's arms, and she let him go.  "What are my choices?  I don't have any money.  My family thinks I'm dead.  My professors think I'm dead, so I can't use them as references for a job.  My old employers think I'm dead, so ditto there, too.  And Henslowe can kill me, Aidan.  I am not in his league.  He'll come for my head, because I'm no more use to him."  Each point was ticked off on long slender fingers, and he curled the fingers into a fist when he was done.  "Lights, camera, quickening -- Game over."

"Under those conditions, yes.  Change the rules, Marcus.  You don't have to play in their version of the Game.  If Henslowe were dead, if Rhys-Tewdor couldn't touch you, what would you do?"  Aidan stood up and moved to settle herself more comfortably on a short filing cabinet facing him and letting her back muscles ease.

"Might as well dream," he shrugged.  He eased back against the couch, visibly alternating between considering himself a dead man and planning how to survive anyway.  "Why not?" Marc admitted at last, turning back to hope easily enough that Aidan began to think he might just survive this.

"Oh, let's see," the young black man went on. "Try to find someone who'd actually teach me how to fight, maybe a good martial arts instructor somewhere.  Go hide in some medium-size city and get a job with an architecture firm again, try and put a life back together while I learn how to stay alive."

"You were an architect?"

The surprise in her voice rubbed him the wrong way and a spark of irritation lit his face, lent animation to his voice.  "Yeah, you have a problem with that?"

"No, not at all," Aidan answered honestly, startled by his reaction.  "You just look young for it."

That stopped him for a second, then Marc replied, "Sorry, I'm used to people thinking that a black man has no business being an architect.  Which is a real pain in the ass, since I'm not black, I'm Italian."

Now Aidan was the one who paused.  "Italian?  Ah.  With that last name, of course you are.  And why wouldn't a black man be an architect?  It's not like your skin keeps you from reading blueprints.  I could have used you a few months ago, too, when I was redesigning my house."

"Really?  What did you do to it?"  He reached for pen and paper on Joe's desk, then froze.  "Oh.  Never mind.  None of my business."

She tilted her head, braid sliding over her blouse, then smiled.  "Look, you gave two hours parole.  I still show half an hour.  I'd like to make you an offer, and whether you take it or not, I would very much like to talk about what I did with my house.  If you're worried about Henslowe, I'll extend my protection for the duration."

"That's not in the rules," Marc said bitterly.

Aidan smiled and spoke in an all too gentle voice.  "They didn't play by the rules when they tried to sacrifice you in exchange for me.  That means I won't play by the rules in guarding you. _Quid pro quo_ , Marcus.  They get what they gave."

All he could say to that was, "Oh."  A smile began to creep onto his face, twitching around his lips and lighting up his eyes as Marc let himself wonder what this woman would consider cheating.  "I wish I could sell tickets to watch you play turnabout."

Aidan shrugged, pleased to see some life coming back.  "No one here would buy them.  Some of the other immortals might help me, but they wouldn't buy tickets.  And Joe might offer to put it on your tab, but he wouldn't give you cash for it, I'm afraid."

"Joe knows about... us?  My sword didn't faze him a bit."

"No, it wouldn't have.  Yes, he knows about immortals.  He and Duncan are good friends."

Marc nodded to himself as he absorbed that information.  He filed it away and glanced back at Aidan.  "You said you wanted to make an offer.  What is it?"

"Would you be interested in studying with me?  I'll warn you now, it's work.  For the first two or three years, you'll be studying probably forty to fifty hours a week and working another twenty to help pay your way and earn some money."

Marc held up one hand.  "Whoa, stop.  Studying with you?  You'd take me as a student?  I mean, I got the impression you hate Christopher."

"I don't know Christopher, although I haven't liked what I'd already heard about him and I like him less now," she answered.  "And I loathe Owain cordially, and have for centuries.  But yes, I'd like to teach you.  You deserve much better than you've gotten and I've taken a liking to you."

"I went for your head and you're going to train me?" he asked incredulously, hands waving for emphasis.

"Duncan acquired his last student, Rich, when he tried to steal a sword from him," she mused.  "It would be fun to top that."

"Lady, have you lost your mind?!  You're going to train me to one-up the MacLeods?"  He switched to Italian to call her a maniac who'd been out in the sun too long or had her brains frozen stiff, one, and whose parents had been too closely related, two.

Aidan listened with great interest, dodging one hand when the emphatic gestures came too close.  When he wound down, she commented thoughtfully, "Not bad at all.  Firenzi accent, too.  But I'm going to have to teach you Arabic, your aspersions lack a certain _je ne sais quois_."

"You're going to teach me to curse more...."  His voice trailed off as he realized he'd been insulting an older and much faster immortal -- who didn't seem at all angry.  If anything, she looked like she was trying not to laugh too loudly.  "You're not....  Yes.  Please.  I want to study with you."

Aidan chuckled and said, "You do realize it's work?  I'll run you ragged, and there will be days you hate me for making you learn all this obscure miscellanea.  And I can't abide treachery."

"I understand.  And I won't betray you," he said grimly.  "Not unless you betray me first."

Aidan nodded at the qualifier.  "Agreed.  So, the first thing we do is set up dinner."

Marc blinked.  "That's first?"

"Mmm-hmm.  You need to meet the other immortals in town, because you're going to be seeing a great deal of them. They're all good friends of mine and one lives in the basement apartment of my house."  Aidan watched his face, seeing the expected shock.

"Friends?  Christopher always said--"  Marc cut himself off in mid-sentence, then continued in a more cynical voice, "Of course he also said you were a drug-dealer.  This is going to take some getting used to.  Okay."  He drew a deep breath and said, "Right.  What else?"

"So that you understand:  I reserve the right to tell you to learn anything I think you need to know.  Sometimes it's up for discussion, but usually it isn't.  For the first few years, at the least, you'll live under the same roof with me, although you will have privacy, I promise.  You aren't a slave; I'm not a tyrant.  But when it comes to your training or your safety, this is not a democracy."  She watched him from mist-colored eyes, hoping he was understanding this.

Marc looked at her curiously and pulled one leg under himself on the sofa to conserve body heat.  "So when is it a democracy?"

"Oh, decisions on dinner, what to do with a free afternoon, what movie to rent at the video store."  One shoulder shrugged and her head tilted, grey eyes wide again and curious as a cat's. "Can you live with that?"

"It's more freedom than I've had.  Yeah, I can live with it.  So now what?"  He stretched, feeling incredibly tired physically from the broken sleep of the last few months, but his mind was racing.

"Now I leave some messages about dinner and we do some shopping.  You need warm clothes.  Do you have any belongings in town or are they all at Henslowe's?"  Quick fingers picked up the phone on Joe's desk.

"I've got a few things in a locker at the bus station, but I didn't leave much at Henslowe's.  I guess my parents got my old things when I... died the first time."  Aidan made no comment over the break in his voice and he went on, "But shopping?  I don't have--  I'm broke, Aidan."

The dark-haired woman shrugged.  "I don't believe I've ever taken a student who wasn't.  I'm not; therefore, try not to worry about it just yet.  Do you remember I said I was going to make you work part-time?"

"Yeah.  What counts?"

"You've a college degree.  May I assume you can do research?"  She lifted a questioning eyebrow, propped on one hip against Joe's desk.  When he nodded, she smiled and said, "We'll ask around through the temp agencies and the universities, see what administrative assistants and teaching assistants get paid, and set up a salary for you.  I need a research assistant.  If we work this right, we may be able to get your architecture credentials reestablished, as well.  It ought to be manageable, although in the end it may require some hacking.  However, one of my former students could probably hack the Pentagon if I truly needed him to, so that's not a true problem."

He sighed in relief at the prospect of getting some of his life back.  "That would be great.  Cool.  I'm not going to be completely free-loading.  Okay.  Let's go shopping.  I'm so tired of being cold."

Aidan passed the katana back, ignoring Marc's startled look.  "I release you from parole. You are now my student, entitled to training, protection, hospitality and guidance.  In exchange, I expect loyalty, application to your studies, courtesy, and thought.  I always return what I get, Marcus."

He smiled at that.  "I can live with that.  I hope you don't regret this, Aidan.  By the way. Make it Marc, please.  Christopher always called me Marcus, but my family called me Marc or Marco."

She chuckled.  "Certainly.  I doubt I'll regret this at all, though.  Let me make one final phone call before we go, if you would."  A few cheerful comments later, including one about a new student, and Aidan had dinner set up at a place she referred to as 'our favorite Italian dive.'  Immortal presence spilled across the room as she put the phone down, the faintest whisper of a formidable strength, and Aidan looked up, smiling.

"Oh, perfect timing.  Adam ought to distract Henslowe nicely."  The fear on Marc's face made Aidan pause.  Very gently she said, "It's all right.  I didn't call him, but he is a friend of mine.  Come on, let's go out the side door and get you established."

"All right," Marc agreed shakily.  He was starting to wonder whether he was up to meeting any more immortals if they were all as energetic as Aidan.  Would he ever manage to be so calm when a strange immortal came into range?  But she hadn't called him a coward, or cursed him for hesitating.  Those quiet, shadowed eyes simply accepted him and that gave the young man the strength to stand and walk back out into the now busy bar.

Joe waved at them as they headed out and nodded when Aidan told him, "Seven o'clock, Joe, over at Elena's.  All right?"

"Will do, Aidan.  Everything okay?"

Aidan grinned at him, mischief lighting her face when she thought about how crazy this would drive the Watcher until dinner.  "Fine, Joe.  Just taking my new student shopping.  See you tonight.  Come on, Marc."  She laughed all the way out the door.

~*~*~*~*~

"No, no, no, Ryan, a sweater is the perfect concealment.  Loose at the neck to draw a sword off the back, loose at the wrists for forearm knives, and no one looks twice at a guy in jeans and a sweater.  It's the uniform of students everywhere.  The only thing that comes close to matching it is, say, a loose Henley and jeans.  And again, it's the open, barely raised neck and the easily accessed cuffs that make them so perfect."  Methos broke off the good-natured debate without ever breaking stride or changing the ironic smile on his face.

Rich glanced over at him; even his strawberry blond hair had dulled in the dim light filtering through the clouds.  Street instincts honed by five years as an immortal kicked in.  "So where's the problem?"

"Well, don't react yet, but one of us is sitting in the bus stop up ahead.  Right in line of sight to watch Joe's place, I see."  Methos studied the man trying to unobtrusively scan the streets through narrowed hazel eyes, and had to repress a disgusted sniff.  Nondescript hair of a shade between blond and brown, cut short in a unexceptional style that fairly screamed 'I want to be inconspicuous,' and a long trench coat that wasn't fastened as the cold would seem to dictate -- this idiot would be almost too obvious as an immortal even if he didn't radiate presence. _Using a bus-stop bench as a base for his surveillance, well, that's at least a nice touch_ , Methos conceded.

Rich meanwhile cheerfully said, "God, I love your distant early warning.  Which side do you want?"

"Oh, I'll take the far side, Ryan.  Longer legs.  You do have a back-up weapon don't you?  The sword would be a bit obvious and we want to talk to this idiot first."

Rich gave Methos his best resigned, indignant look.  "Aidan let me out of the house this morning, didn't she?  Of course I do."

"Good, one of us is rubbing off on you.  Show time," Methos murmured as they walked casually down the street and into hearing range.  "No, Rich, I still say that the best way to learn a foreign language is to read the literature in the original.  The Thousand and One Nights are vastly different in Arabic than in most of the translations."

"Really?  More gore?"

"And more sex.  Trust me."  As they approached the bus stop, apparently paying no attention to the man there, Rich suddenly swerved and dropped onto the bench.  The concealed knife in his right hand pressed into the strange immortal's left side.  Methos had moved around the bench and swept the man's foot out from under him as he tried to stand.  Pressed against the stranger's other side, Methos dug into him with a thick-bladed dagger until the blood flowed.

"What the hell\--"

Rich said cheerfully, "Welcome to the neighborhood.  We'd hate for you to feel lost or out of place, so we're doing our neighborly duty by stopping and helping you out.  I didn't catch your name."

"No, you didn't.  All right, all right," the man conceded with a grunt as Methos twisted the blade in the currently shallow wound.  "I'm Christopher Henslowe." 

"How nice for you," Methos replied cattily.  "Who are you waiting for?"

Level blue-grey eyes studied him with an odd combination of fatalism and furious calculation that made Methos reappraise this man.  "I could say I'm not waiting for anyone but the bus, but I don't think you'd believe me, now would you?"

Rich snorted.  "Yeah, right, and I'm the King of Persia.  Hey, Adam, we don't need this guy.  He's looking for one of us; we kill him.  No problem.  Besides, it's my turn to take the head."

"Don't get greedy, Rich."  Methos smiled pleasantly at Henslowe.  "You know, I really think you'd better answer.  My friend here needs a reason not to kill you, and pretty badly too.  He gets touchy when he hasn't had a good quickening in a while, and it's been at least three months."

Rich bared his teeth, all manic energy and barely restrained glee.  A small part of his mind was enjoying watching Methos at work.  Mostly, however, the young redhead was enjoying the irony of playing bad cop to Methos' good cop.  The old man was devious and ruthless, with more tricks and twists to his promises than a snake in a hurry and more concealed weapons and traps than a Hollywood ninja on an unlimited budget. 

Without a trace of remorse, though, the young redhead dug in with his dagger.  Whoever this bozo was, he'd been waiting in a perfect place to observe two of the main ways in or out of Joe's bar.  Too many immortals hung out here:  Mac, Methos, Rich himself, Aidan... Amanda when she was in town, or Connor, or Coventry.  It was just too dangerous to let this guy get away without getting some answers.

"All right, damn it, what's the question?"  Henslowe was doing a good job of staying calm, Rich had to admit.

"Who are you waiting for?  I thought it was simple enough."  Methos kept his voice level, but put that formal, snide bite into the words that only the British did so well. 

"Not you," came the immediate response from Henslowe.  "Neither of you.  I'll be on my way."

Rich leaned into him, dagger pressing more deeply.  "You know, I've wondered for a while if you can spill an immortal's guts on the ground and then tuck them back in place.  Does it heal?  What if you leave a loop out?  Adam, what do you think?"

"Personally?  I think you've been watching too many Wes Craven films again.  You promised to stop," Methos managed to reply lightly.  He knew precisely what happened and wasn't about to discuss it or where and how he'd picked up that knowledge.  "So, Christopher, let's try twenty questions.  Are you waiting for a man or a woman?"

Henslowe rolled his eyes in irritation, then answered, "A man."

"Ah, we get to drag it out.  This would be entertaining, except I'm cold," Adam answered.  "Fine.  One of us, I assume?"

"Would you be harassing me otherwise?  I suppose I could figure out what you want to know and tailor my answers....  Uhn!"  Methos gouged a pressure point, causing a flash of agony, and the reflexive flinch away from the pain drove Henslowe straight onto Rich's blade.  "All right, yes, one of us."

Rich smirked.  "God, you are an idiot.  Okay, let me explain how this game works.  He asks you questions; you answer.  If you give really good answers, you get a prize:  I don't hurt you.  Isn't that a great prize?"  The young immortal smiled his best 'smart ass, street punk with a brain gone bad' smile.  It bared a lot of teeth, and made Rich look two years younger and a hell of a lot more psychotic.  A Victorian angel gone wrong on hallucinogenics might have looked like that, all rosy cheeks and blankly happy eyes.

Methos choked down a laugh that would destroy the delusion Rich had created.  Gods, for having spent five years off and on as the Boy Scout's student, Rich certainly had a wicked streak in him.  Instead of chuckling, the world's oldest immortal assumed his best expression of controlled, British worry, stiff upper lip and all, and said somberly, "I can't control him much longer.  You really ought to tell us what's going on."

Grey-blue eyes had darkened to grey under the stress as Henslowe looked from one of them to the other.  A quick glance showed him that, despite the lunch hour people moving around, there was no one to help him.  On a day this dreary, no one had much interest in anything except getting in out of the wind and cold to find hot food.  Fine, he'd lie long enough to get away from these two psychos and then double back.

"All right.  I'm here looking for a student of mine who went bad.  I trailed him this far, but he ducked into that building and hasn't come back out."  Christopher injected a mix of worry, embarrassment, and anger into his voice, trying to make the story believable.  "I'm not here for either of you, just trailing him."

The severe expression on Methos' face never wavered.  "Gone bad.  What counts?"

"Marcus... decided that he was going to win the Game no matter what it takes.  He's dealing drugs to get a steady supply of PCP.  When you can ignore all the pain of the wounds, it starts coming down to length of arm and strength.  And hopped up on PCP, he's revved so high and so fast, he's more dangerous than he should be.  Then he started coating his dagger with curare."

Methos shook his head grimly.  It sounded like a nasty combination, and Christopher probably knew someone who truly was using that mix of pharmaceuticals -- but the man was lying.  He wasn't here for this Marcus, if there even was such an immortal.  "Right, then.  Interesting, but not true.  One last try, then he's all yours, Rich."

Rich licked his lips and leaned into Christopher, angling the dagger to make a shallow slice.  "Do we have to give him one more chance, Adam?  I'm hungry."

Methos made a mental note to talk to Rich later about the difference between verisimilitude and getting too far into character.  Definitely time to wean the boy off horror films.  Methos shrugged at Henslowe and said calmly, "I think you'd better hurry.  He's getting restless.  I don't have any real hold over him and you know how these older immortals get after one too many quickenings."

Henslowe shifted his stare from Methos to Rich and back again before whispering, "Older?  That was you I sensed?  But you were...."

Rich couldn't keep the smile off his face when he saw Henslowe realize just how far away he'd felt the presence.  That kind of range was one of the more impressive things about Methos.  And what the hell, he owed the old-timer for that crack about being insane. _Hey, why not, this is getting more entertaining by the minute._   "I was what?  Who do you think I am?"

Henslowe paled, which left him an unpleasant ashen color.  "I don't know.  Who are you?"

"I'm Methos," the young redhead said coldly.  "Maybe you've heard of me."

Hazel eyes shot a glare at him over Henslowe's head as Methos hastily controlled a laugh.  Just in time he managed to compose his face into a sorrowful expression.  "Well, that's that then.  You should have told us; now he's not going to let you live.  Did you want a few minutes to make peace with your God?"

"You're--  Methos is a myth.  He's no more real than the Flame from the Stones," came the shaken reply.

Methos stared at him, eyes narrowing.  "Where did you hear that name?"

Henslowe glared back at him.  "My teacher mentioned her once."

Having noticed the spark of interest in Methos' questions, Rich changed his line of attack.  "That's a very old name.  Who's your teacher?"

"What's it matter to you?  You're just going to kill me," Henslowe replied.  "Or try.  Either way, it won't be important, now will it?"

Methos shrugged and said quietly, "I think he's told us everything, Methos.  We can find out whose student he is.  Someone will know."  Deliberately he watched Christopher's face as he added, "Aidan will almost certainly know."

The skin around the other man's eyes tightened at the name and Methos said quietly, "So you were looking for Aidan.  I wondered.  Did you kill Rihana, then?  Or this teacher of yours?"

The completely conversational voice confused Henslowe even more.  Who was the threat here, the red-head or the lanky Brit?  One of them was ancient and powerful, but which?  While his mind scrabbled for answers, his instincts pushed him back toward the one claiming to be Methos, seeing him as less dangerous.  "I don't know any immortal named Rihana.  Never have."

Rich commented cheerfully, "You know, I think that's the first honest thing you've said, other than your name.  I knew you had it in you somewhere.  And you know what?  No good deed goes unpunished.  Like I told you,  you tell the truth, I let you go.  Have a nice life."

Henslowe looked at him, startled and shocked.  "You're letting me go, just like that?"

"Like I said, you answer, I don't hurt you.  Simple concept.  No problem."  Rich shrugged.

Methos, however, smiled at the man.  "We said he wouldn't hurt you."  Henslowe started to get up and Methos stood with him, dagger still in the other man's side.  "But I never said **I** wouldn't.  There's a convenient alley over here, as I'm sure you're already aware.  Come along."

"This is a challenge, then?"  Henslowe's voice betrayed none of his feelings on the matter; he might have asked after the weather in the same tone.

"That would be the word, yes.  Coming?"  Methos prodded him with the knife.

"Why not?  What else was I doing this afternoon?  Your friend will stay out of it, I hope?"

Rich said in a bored voice, "The rule is one on one.  I won't get into it."

Henslowe waved one hand at the alley.  "Shall we, then?  I have a student to hunt."

~*~*~*~*~

Joe snarled from sheer frustration when the lights flickered and then went out.  Around the club, a startled silence fell as everything momentarily stopped:  conversations, the fans blowing hot air from the central heat, the jukebox, and the dying whine of a blender gearing down.  Grabbing a flashlight from under the bar, the bartender called out, "Everyone stay calm.  I'll go hit the circuit breaker and get things back up.  Renee, Dawn, get the lighters and candles out, would you?"

Even as his assistant bartender and the head waitress called out affirmatives and went to work by the light of hastily drawn Zippos and Bics, Joe headed toward the circuit board.  It was, thank goodness, just inside the kitchen.  Sure enough, all of the lights came back up (and the blender; Joe winced thinking about sticky strawberry daiquiri mix splattered all over the counter and up to the top of the mirror) and Joe walked back into the bar in time to see Methos enter it.

Their eyes met across the room and Joe read the wordless apology that answered the question he hadn't started to ask yet.  For the next few minutes, the mortal bartender and Watcher stayed busy filling drink orders from suddenly nervous patrons.  By the time it calmed down, Rich was sitting at the bar, too, having stopped in the men's room on the way.  Joe studied the damp cuffs of Rich's shirt, the fine lines of strain or pain around Methos' eyes and his drawn-down eyebrows, and passed each of them a beer.  "So, who was it?"

Methos answered tiredly, "Some idiot named Christopher Henslowe.  A lousy liar, and stupid enough to start with his left hand to pretend he was a southpaw.  Fool."

Rich glanced at him, evaluating the other immortal's mood, and said thoughtfully, "Joe, give him a double Scotch.  I'll buy, but pass it to him, would you?  Before we have a bar brawl?"

Methos took the drink Joe was already handing him without looking up.  "I didn't get to my age without being able to control myself, Ryan, but I'll let you pay anyway.  Joe?  I hate to ask you to do this, but I need to know who he was, and who trained him if you can find that out as well.  Unless you already know?"

"No, but I'll look into it.  Did you see a Watcher anywhere, or is Adam's cover still safe?"  Joe kept his voice down as he asked.  Renee didn't know about immortals and he was trying to keep it that way.

Rich grinned and asked, "How do you do it, Sherlock?  Just his bad mood?  And no, I didn't see a Watcher, not mine and not Henslowe's."

"Hey, he's the one who needs the Scotch," Joe answered.  "Look, Adam, if this is going to put you in a bastard mood, go find Mac, okay?  You need to be civilized before tonight, old buddy."

That caught Methos' attention even as the hard liquor began to anesthetize some of his exposed nerve endings.  Very soon the rage and battle lust would be under control and he could do something sensible... such as take one or both of his lovers to bed and work off the last of the excess energy in a less destructive fashion.  But his curiosity drove him to ask, "Why tonight, Joe?  What's up?"

"Aidan wants to get together for dinner over at Elena's.  She did set up, walked out, then waltzed back in not ten minutes later with a young black man and a spare blade.  Fed the boy one of my biggest steaks -- which he needed -- holed up with him in my office for an hour, then waltzed back out with him, no katana or new blood showing.  Said she had to take her new student shopping."

Methos listened to this recital with one hand propping up his chin.  By the end of it he was shaking his head.  "Damnation, that means she's busy this afternoon.  Was she serious, do you think?"

Rich stared and said, "New student?  Shit.  I'm glad I already moved into the basement.  Means the upstairs apartment is clear for the guy."

Joe grinned at Rich.  "Hey, you're just down in the basement so she won't know every time you go in and out.  And I have no clue, Adam.  She may have been yanking my chain.  I've got to try and look up the boy, too.  I didn't get a last name on him, but I may be able to get him with the first alone.  Worth trying."

"All right, Joe, I'll go find Mac.  What time are we supposed to be there?"

"Seven.  Seriously, Adam, go do something, but try to be in a good mood, okay?  The kid looks like he's been down ten miles of hard road lately, you know?  Underfed and underdressed, too.  Looked like a good person who's been on the rough side of the tracks for a while.  Skittish."  Joe held his friend's eyes, trying to get his concern for both the young student and Adam through.

"For God's sake, Dawson, I don't bite every new immortal who comes by," Methos snapped, irritated.  "I even let Rich live the first time I saw him."

Rich grinned at him and said, "I don't know, you were pretty sarcastic when I didn't believe who you were, old timer.  And you still don't hand out many words of wisdom."

"I keep telling you, Ryan, I'm not some all-knowing font of wisdom, all right?  I'm just a guy who's been around a bit.  You want words of wisdom, ask Aidan.  She used to be one of the _Draiochtais_ , did she never tell you?"  Methos pushed up off his stool, all restless motion as the quickening burned through his blood.  "I'm off, I think.  I'll see both of you at dinner."

Rich nodded to him, then said, "Joe, you need another waiter for a while?  I could use some extra cash."

Methos nodded curtly to him on his way out, knowing he was being brusque but not worried about it.  Rich knew what it felt like to have a quickening burning in your brain, riding in your blood.  He'd make allowances for it or not, but Methos wasn't going to fret over it.

Once the door closed, Joe asked, "Is the clean-up handled, Rich?"

Rich nodded.  "Yeah, I took care of everything, Joe.  But I figure that the money is Adam's, not mine.  This just isn't a good time to give it to him."

Joe shook his head.  "Well, I wouldn't want to be in his way right now, and that's the truth.  And I could use someone to organize the inventory in the back room for me.  So, are you picking up Aidan's habits about your opponent's money?"

Rich shrugged as he came around behind the bar, neatly dodging Renee at the far end.  "She makes good sense, Joe.  It's not like he needs it anymore.  Speaking of sense, remind me to ask her or Mac what _draiochtais_ means.  I have got to break down and learn Gaelic.  All right, point me at what you need.  Didn't I hear you tell Mac the other day that you needed some shelves fixed, too?"

Joe grinned at him.  "Yeah, I do.  But how about you start by cleaning up that?"

Rich caught the damp rag and surveyed the daiquiri wreckage.  "Oh, great.  Hey, work's work."  With a deep breath he hoisted himself up onto the bar and started cleaning. 

~*~*~*~*~

Duncan stroked Methos' hair and back, almost too drowsy and content to move.  Feeling goose bumps rise on the thinner man's skin, he reached carefully with one arm and pulled the blanket up over them both.  That done, he went back to running his fingers through his lover's hair.  Overwrought muscles relaxed against him and he waited to see if this had worn Methos out or if it was going to take another bout.

A sated voice rumbled against his throat, saying, "You know, for someone who had never taken a male lover a year ago, you're incredibly good at this."

The younger man chuckled at that.  "Which part?"

"Fishing for compliments?"  Methos tried to push up and take some of his own weight, but strong arms wrapped around his back and pulled him down again.

"You're not heavy, _luaidh_ , and I'm not sore.  You feel too good, don't move yet.  I'll clean us up in a few minutes."  Duncan continued to stroke feathery soft spikes of short hair, then let his hand drift down another few inches to begin rubbing out Methos' neck.  "Better now?"

The leaner man sighed into the touch, basking in his lover's heat beneath him and around him where he was still buried in his body.  "Gods, yes.  Much better.  Do you think your poor intern will get over being scandalized?"

Mac chuckled again.  "Just because you came walking in and said you needed to see me upstairs right now?  She'll get over it.  If necessary, Sharon will convince Trish that it's business, and not hers."

"Oh, is that who took over the class?" Methos asked with a  complete lack of interest.  The quickening was finally settling and three very rapid orgasms were starting to take effect.  "Remarkably sensible student, even if she does like putting more holes in her ears than in her opponents."

"Yes," Duncan agreed, grinning.  "Fortunately, she wanted to teach the afternoon classes; she wants the practice before her next rank test.  And Trish is the intern who was trying to straighten out the books," he told Methos, aware that, tired as the older man was, he didn't care.  He only wanted to listen to Duncan's voice as he slid down into sleep.  That wasn't quite what Mac intended, however.

"Don't worry about any of that, all right?  We have the entire afternoon if you like."  Mac's hands worked their way down to Methos' shoulder blades, feeling tension finally give way.  "Do you want to talk about it?"

"Mmm."  Methos sighed as he finally slid out of his lover's body.  "I suppose we should get a shower and change the sheets.  What I really want is to get clean and then go to sleep on you for a while."

Duncan answered simply, "Then we will.  Ready to get up?"

"No, but I won't be happy if I wake up sticky either."  Methos groaned softly and moved out of the bed and into the bathroom.  Hot water was pouring over his head and he had already washed his hair by the time cool air eddied through the bathroom, announcing Duncan's arrival.  The older immortal made room, enjoying the sight of water beading down olive skin, watching the way the heat brought an immediate flush.  There was something incredibly sensual about the Highlander most of the time, but the expression on Duncan's face as he closed his eyes and gave himself over to the hot water sheeting down him made Methos wish he were an artist.

Duncan moved out of the spray after the water had slicked off most of the accumulated fluids and pushed Methos back under.  "Hold still," he ordered, pulling out the soap to wash his lover.

"What did I do to warrant all the pampering?" Methos asked.  He had no objections, turning to face Duncan, both hands on his lover's shoulders to give him better access. 

"I need a reason?"  The younger man stroked soap across his lover's hands and arms, then massaged his way down the chest. 

"No, I suppose not.  And his name was Christopher Henslowe.  He was sitting at the bus stop outside Joe's, waiting for someone.  Tried to feed me and Rich a cock and bull story about being after a student gone wrong, but he was hunting Aidan, I think."  Methos kept his tone level without much effort.  Having strange immortals after them was nothing new for any of the three lovers, although it was usually someone after the legendary Duncan MacLeod or the ancient Methos. 

Duncan thought about that for a little while, continuing to clean and soothe his lover as he did.  "Why Aidan?  Usually people come to Joe's looking for me, although there was that one student of Mako's who came hunting Rich."

"I'm going to have to talk to Joe about that," Methos said grimly.  "He was looking for Aidan; it was in his eyes when I used her name.  But he said something beforehand that makes me think his teacher may have killed Rihana of the Silences.  Christopher mentioned a mythical female immortal, the Flame from the Stones.  Ever heard the phrase?"

"No."  Duncan shook his head, rifling his memories for stories that he'd heard down the years and names of female immortals.  "I'd remember that one, it sounds more like a title than a name.  Darius once mentioned a woman he called the hunting hawk of the immortals, but not a flame from the stones.  Most of the immortal women I heard about by name:  Kyra, Rebecca, May-Ling.  Why?  Who is she?"

Methos said tiredly, "You speak Gaelic, Mac, even if it's Scots-Gaelic.  What is the meaning of Edana ni Emer?"

Automatically, the Highlander translated the words.  "Blaze or Torch, daughter of Granite."  He paused, then said quietly, "Flame born of stone.  Oh."

" 'Oh,' indeed.  The only person who ever called her that was Rihana, who loved to play with words.  Darius knew the name, but he never used it.  He preferred to refer to Aidan as a peregrine, the falcon that can be cast solitary against her prey and never balks at opponents three times her weight.  Either way, we're talking about our lover.  Whoever Christopher's teacher is, I think I know what happened to Rihana."  Methos sighed.  "I'm going to wait until I've slept to decide what to tell Aidan."

"I changed the sheets, Methos.  You're clean, too," and Duncan pushed him under the water and began quickly lathering himself.  "Get dry and I'll be there in a minute to keep you warm.  We'll figure it out when you wake up."

Methos didn't argue with an offer that generous.  By the time the Highlander got to the bed, hair toweled damp if not dry, the older immortal was already curled tightly under the down comforter and mostly asleep.  The younger man climbed in and pulled him back against his chest.  Methos murmured something sleepy and turned over, flinging one arm across Duncan's chest, one leg over a muscled thigh, as he burrowed into the Scot's warmth.  Once the older immortal had settled his head comfortably on Duncan's chest, the Highlander wrapped an arm around his ribs and placed the other hand on his hip.  Tired from the afternoon's exertions himself, Duncan set a portion of his mind to wake them in a few hours and slid into sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

Marc tried to look awake and alert, but it wasn't working.  For the last half-hour he'd been dozing off, only to jerk awake again.  He didn't think his new teacher had missed it, but Aidan hadn't yelled at him or suggested he was a lazy wimp, which was where Christopher would have started.  And there were several bags of purchases in the back of her Range Rover, as well as his beat-up duffel bag from the bus station.

She hadn't been incredibly extravagant, for which he was grateful.  Debts worried him.  But Aidan had taken him to Target and helped him pick out several pairs of jeans, a few good outfits, sweaters, sweats, and everything else essential.  Unfortunately, Marc had basically needed everything from the skin out, down to a new toothbrush.  The final bill had horrified him but she just shrugged, as matter of fact about the matter as though such things were routine, and told him not to worry so, that her round-trip ticket to Paris had cost more.

He'd thought they were done at that point.  Instead, she took him to an athletic store and bought hiking boots, running shoes, and cross-trainers as well as a good frame backpack and an all-purpose Swiss Army knife.  The next stop had been a martial arts supply store where the employees knew her by name and had quickly sized him up and fitted him with a couple gis and some supplies to keep his katana clean and polished.  The herbal store sold her several herbs she requested by name, half of which she measured out herself, various shampoos and soaps, which Aidan cheerfully assured him were for her, and several jars of something they had called jao.  A stop at a men's shop had resulted in a new long coat for him, lined and much warmer than he'd had, as well as warm, lightweight gloves, and a heavy winter jacket.  Aidan had freely admitted she had no taste in men's ties or dress shoes so he was on his own with the salesman, but she told Marc to get those, too, and a decent suit jacket.

Even at the marathon pace they had both used, since his new teacher seemed no more inclined to dawdle over purchases than he was, they'd been running errands for four hours now.  Marc was exhausted and Joe's wonderful steak had worn off at least forty-five minutes ago.  He jerked awake from a frightened dream about Owain Rhys-Tewdor wanting to know why Christopher was wrapped up with a UPS label on his head in time to see a four-story brick building in front of the parked Range Rover.  A steel gate was still closing off to one side of the large parking area.

Aidan pulled her hand back from gently shaking him awake and said, "We're here.  Let's get all the bags upstairs, then I'll show you where everything is.  You have time to sleep for a couple hours before meeting the others.  All right?"

"Yeah, that's fine.  Sorry, I--"  Marc tried to apologize and she cut him off with a smile and a shake of her head.

"Let's work on getting you rested and fed, hmm?  After that, say in about two weeks, you can start worrying about staying awake.  Grab a handful of bags."

Between them they got most of the bags on the first run and Aidan unlocked the house and deactivated an alarm as they went in.  Marc caught a blurred impression of deep blue walls exploding into squares of vibrant color, shelves full of books and knickknacks, and a couple of computers.  Then they walked into the other half of the first floor and it looked like several different shop classes combined into one room, with a freight elevator on the right.  Aidan slid up the guard on the elevator and piled bags into one corner.

On the trip back, he managed to notice more of the detailing, seeing thick support beams running across the two rooms, high, spacious windows all around, and bare brick walls in the workshop.  The windows in both rooms were tinted grey and had curtains on the bottom four feet or so of glass.  This time they got all the bags and she locked up the vehicle.

Aidan punched the button for the fourth floor and told him, "I'll show you the rest of the house later, Marc, but you'll be living up on the top floor.  Among other things, it ensures that anyone who wants you has to go past me first." 

He caught quick glimpses of the second and third floors as they went by.  The second floor had a fireplace and couches just outside the elevator; the third floor was empty, except for weapons racks and gleaming, hardwood floors, just like the rest of the place.

At the fourth floor Marc swung up the elevator grate, partly to see how heavy it was, partly because it was his turn and this was going to be his home, too.  Despite being tired, he had to stop and look around.  This floor had been divided north-south, unlike the first floor which ran east-west.  His practiced gaze gauged the entire living area as being probably thirty by fifty, and it was mostly open space with furniture groups defining areas rather than interior walls.  The elevator stood in the center of the west wall, and a long, enclosed room ran north from it toward a small kitchen.  A table and some chairs stood just outside the tiled cooking area.  A few feet from the tiles, a spiral staircase spun down to the next floor.  In and left from the stair, an L-shaped computer desk sat on a large area rug, facing tall windows and shelves built along the interior wall.

Further down the wall were two doors and then more shelves.  Radiators on either side provided heat for the room, but there was also a standing wood stove on the tiles directly opposite the elevator and about twenty feet in; firewood sat neatly stacked behind it in a wrought-iron rack.  To the left of the fireplace was a couch with a long, narrow table behind it and an end-table on either side.  A love seat sat at right angles to it and an entertainment center made up the third corner of the triangle.  The shelves behind the couch held books, videos and CDs in a random assortment. 

He kept turning left and saw two armoires and a gorgeously patterned oriental rug lying a few feet out from either wall, with a sleigh bed perched in the middle.  The maroon comforter on the bed picked up the maroon in the rug, and a long bench along the bottom of the bed held extra blankets.  A standing lamp was positioned behind the headboard;  a small bookcase stood on the wall behind the bed.  Two dressers, one with a mirror, marched up the wall toward a washer and dryer.  The long table backed up against the freight elevator nearby struck him as a  perfect place to fold clothes, and someone had obviously done just that.  A pile of neatly folded jeans and shirts sat on the back of the table and Aidan shook her head when she saw them.

"Rich has been doing laundry, I see.  I'll take those back down with me.  He usually uses the washer and dryer up here to stay out of my way.  I'll tell him to work on my floor until you two sort something out."  Kind grey eyes studied Marc intently, then she went on, "This floor has always been intended for my next student, Marc.  If the two of you work things out -- wonderful.  But you have no obligations to share this space.  Rich and I have been friends for a while now.  He can use my floor or a Laundromat.  It's certainly nothing for you to worry over before you get sleep."

Marc studied the floor intently for a long moment, ignoring the prickling in his eyes.  Just because he was tired and no one had been this kind to him in two years was no reason for his eyes to be watering.  Out loud he said, "Yeah, I'll talk to him.  Is he going to be at this dinner?"

"Yes.  Joe will be there, too, and Duncan MacLeod, and Adam Pierson.  I thought you might prefer to meet them somewhere a bit more public than here."

Her voice sounded tentative.  _Concerned for me?_ Marc wondered, startled by the thought.   He looked up and saw Aidan was watching him closely.

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked gently, and he wasn't sure she only meant dinner.

"Yeah.  I'll be fine.  Just tired, Aidan."  He realized in surprise that he was shivering, too.

"Tell you what," his new teacher offered.  "Why don't you drop the bags vaguely near where they need to be put up and go see what's in the kitchen cabinets?  Knowing Rich, there's a secret stash of candy or crackers or something.  I'll get a fire started to warm the room and go away to let you sleep.  Will that suit?"

"That would be great.  Thanks."  By the time the last few chocolate chip cookies had vanished, he felt a bit more like himself.  Planning where to put his new clothes and gear made him feel better, too, and the growing warmth from the fire soon had Marc yawning.  When he glanced up, Aidan was checking through the fridge and cabinets and writing out a list.  She folded the paper and dropped it into a coat pocket, then walked back to him.

"The alarm clock is set for six.  It's on the dresser because if Rich doesn't stand up to get to it, he doesn't wake up, but feel free to rearrange up here to your heart's content.  If you need an extra set of arms, let me know.  In the meantime, let me show you this."  Her hands reached out to the headboard and apparently buried themselves to the wrists.

"What the hell?"  Marc reached along her arm and slipped his hand into a narrow shelf carved into the headboard just above pillow height.  It was, he realized, a beautiful job; someone had worked ornate decorations into the headboard that hid the long, slender opening in shadows as long as the light came from above a forty-five degree angle.  Intrigued now, he knelt onto the bed, peering around to see how it had been done, talking to himself as he examined it.

Aidan chuckled watching him.  She had a feeling that the animated person muttering about furniture styles and lighting angles was more the real Marc than the emotionally and physically exhausted young man who'd attacked her in the alley.  "It's for your sword, or a dagger if you prefer.  There are sword pegs on the sides of the bed as well, near the headboard.  The comforter covers them when the bed is made.  Store your sword, get some sleep, and meet me on the second floor at 6:30."

"I'll be there," he promised, already yawning as he positioned his katana in its new home.

She paused at the elevator, the strap for the guard still in one hand.  "Marc?  Welcome home."  Before he could figure out what to say or begin to feel awkward about his own silence, Aidan closed the grate and the elevator hummed and clanged its way downstairs.

As soon as he heard the engine gear up, Marc headed toward the bathroom, stripping off his battered, filthy clothes on the way.  Without a second thought, he threw them in the trash.  They might be wearable again, with some serious cleaning and a lot of repair, but he wasn't willing to try.  Instead he turned himself resolutely to the days ahead.  He had a new teacher, who seemed nothing like Christopher.  Chris had expected him to know things automatically, to understand intuitively why motions or jobs should be done a certain way.  Aidan had already told him things about the Game and fighting he'd never known, without once treating him like an idiot or a mental case. 

Marc turned the water off when he was through, remembering something his new teacher had said at one point while they were shopping.  His job, for the next few years at least, was to listen, to think, and to learn.  Fine.  That he could do.  This wasn't the life he'd chosen for himself, but at least now it was a teacher he'd chosen and a task he could manage; that would do for a start.  Marc wrapped those thoughts around himself for warmth and found them incredibly comforting.  Clean body, warm flannel sheets and thick comforters on the bed, and the smell of pine in the air from the fire... all of them conspired with the dreary afternoon and his exhaustion to drop him into a deep, dreamless sleep.

~*~*~*~*~

Joe shook his head and growled in mock disgust, "Damn, Rich, you guys are worse than an alarm system.  Aidan or Duncan?"

Rich grinned at the older man and answered, "Duncan and Adam both, I think.  Not Aidan."  He never took his eye off the door into the dining room, however, or moved his hand away from this jacket as he joked, "Hey, just because you've been Watching so long you know 'the look' is no reason to take it out on me.  Just be glad I can recognize those three, or my nerves would be shot for good."

"Says the former burglar," Joe grumbled quietly, but he smiled when Duncan and Methos walked in.  To his relief, Methos looked rested and his normal unperturbed self again.  "Hey, Adam.  What'd you do, spend the afternoon meditating?"

Methos shrugged, a wry smile on his lips.  "My favorite mantra, Joe.  So where's Aidan?"

Joe gave him a look that very clearly indicated he took no responsibility for her whereabouts, then turned to the other man.  "Hey, Mac.  Grab a seat."

Duncan grinned at him and ruffled Rich's hair on his way by.  "Has anyone actually seen this new student of Aidan's yet?"

"If he's the guy she fed this morning, then yeah," Joe answered promptly.  "And I think he is.  Marcus is definitely an immortal.  But I can't believe she's taking him as a student."

Adam waited until the waiter had gotten their drink orders and left again before asking, "Marcus, hmm?"  He traded an ironic glance with Rich, then went on, "What's the problem with him, Joe?  Drug dealer?"

Joe snorted and ran a hand through spiking grey hair, ruffling it straight up again.  "Not a chance, Adam.  He's actually a good kid, raised by a middle-class Italian family.  Get this, his full name is Marcus Aquilla Scipio.  No real surprise there, once you know his adopted father is Antonio Julius Scipio.  The family came to the USin the '30s while Mussolini was still gaining power.  No, the kid was a promising young architect in Philadelphia until two years ago.  He turned up missing, according to the police reports his family filed.  Two months later, Christopher Henslowe's Watcher reported that he had a student.

"Watching Henslowe was a pain in the ass, and I'm not going to tell you three how we were doing it.  The man has -- had--" Joe corrected himself, "a house in the middle of nowhere up in British Columbia.  And I do mean nowhere.  It was a hundred miles as the crow flies to the next town.  Truthfully, we'd have never known about Marcus except that John FitzAlan went out there to visit, and the two Watchers linked up.  FitzAlan's Watcher is very good at trailing anyone, anywhere, and managed to get some pictures."

Joe glanced over at Mac.  "You've heard of FitzAlan, Mac.  Aidan usually calls him Owain Rhys-Tewdor.  Ring any bells?"

Duncan rolled his eyes.  "Joe, even I've been tempted to go headhunting, although Damien told me more about him than Aidan did.  But this kid's out of that line?  What happened that she took him as a student, then?  If he's had a teacher for two years now, how much does he still need to know?"

"A helluva lot, Mac," came the grim answer.  "I didn't hear most of the conversation, but he didn't know about Holy Ground.  Makes you wonder what else no one told him."

"He what?!"

Methos reached out and wrapped one hand around Duncan's arm before he could spill his drink.  "Mac.  We're talking Owain's people here.  If they didn't tell him about Holy Ground, it was deliberate.  Now I know what Henslowe was doing outside the bar."

Rich looked back and forth between them.  "Okay, I'll bite, old timer.  Enlighten me."

Methos cocked his head to one side, then looked at Duncan in disgust.  "I thought you and Darius taught him basic strategy at least.  Come on, Ryan, think chess if nothing else.  What can you do with a pawn?"

Rich shrugged.  "Move two squares on the first move, one at a time after that, capture on a diagonal, and exchange it for a queen if it gets to the end of the column.  What about it?"

Methos sighed in frustration.  "No wonder you got me that sweatshirt for Christmas.  Ever heard of sacrificing a pawn, Rich?"

Duncan broke in, his voice betraying his fury.  "They sent him to be killed, Rich.  And when Aidan or whoever was on the ground trying to control the quickening, this Henslowe would have taken her head -- while she was defenseless.  Which means in two years, they haven't taught this Marcus a damn thing except how to do everything wrong."

Joe just said, "Swear to God, we're not supposed to pick sides, but if this is the kind of thing Rhys-Tewdor teaches folks to do, I'm gonna buy a case of the best booze I can get my hands on for whoever takes his ass out of the Game."

Methos said speculatively, "You know, Dawson, if you'd be willing to forgive my bar tab...."

Duncan glanced up at his lover, torn between indignation and laughter.  "Adam!"

"Oh, calm down, MacLeod, it was just a thought.  Actually, Rhys-Tewdor is one I'd rather not cross before I have to.  Nasty, devious mind on him, and a skilled sword arm.  He's quite good at what he does."  Methos shrugged, then, and settled more comfortably into his chair.  "Of course, I know what he is and he has no clue about me, so I'd win.  But it would be closer than I like."

"I love a confident man," Rich said gleefully.  "Where do I place my bets?"

Duncan pointed at Joe.  "With your neighborhood 'impartial observer,' Rich."

Joe sighed in resignation.  "Great, not only am I the barkeep, now I'm the resident immortal bookie.  Great.  Next Benny Carbassa's gonna hit town again."

Mac raised his hands, forefingers shaping the old sign of the cross so prevalent in Hammer vampire films.  "No, Joe, anything but that!"  His eyes widened a bit, then all three of the immortals relaxed and the Highlander went on, "Aidan's here.  She's got someone with her, but not strong at all."

Marc paused just inside the door of the restaurant.  The smells reminded him forcefully of home.  Garlic and cooking onion, boiling pasta, tomato sauce and fresh bread out of the oven... for a moment he even imagined he heard his mother in the next room.  Then immortal presence rolled over him in waves, stronger than he'd ever felt before, worse even than when Owain had come to visit them last winter.  The headache spiked through, drawing a wince, then faded just as immediately as he locked eyes with the first immortal, a pale, slender man who'd been watching the door.  Hazel eyes met amber and Marc nodded to him once.  No point in denying it, especially when the other three at the table were waving them over, already calling hellos to Aidan.

Joe added, "Marc, how's it going?  You look better already."

Marc nodded and sat down next to the bartender.  "I feel better, thank you.  The steak helped a lot." His eyes were studying the other three at the table carefully.  The slender man slouched into a chair across from him made no secret of his appraisal.  Those hazel eyes were looking at everything visible and seemed to keep right on going, until no part of Marc's personality had been left unexamined.  It was a relief when the man picked his beer up with one hand and pulled Aidan into a kiss with the other.

Part of Marc's mind immediately catalogued him as 'Aidan's lover' and the intense inspection began to make more sense.  To his surprise, though, when she finished kissing him, Aidan moved toward the dark-haired man across from Joe and kissed him just as passionately.  The redheaded young man sitting next to Joe cheerfully said, "Get a room, you three.  Joe, introduce us, since Aidan's busy."

"I've got a room, Rich, and you're using the spare," Aidan replied sarcastically when Duncan promptly let her up.  "All right, gentlemen, introductions, and don't even think about scaring my new student off with your foolishness.  Marc, starting on your left, since you haven't been formally introduced, this is Joe Dawson.  He owns the bar we were in this morning and plays the best blues guitar this side of the Mississippi."

"Flattery, Aidan, will get you a free song sometime," Joe smiled at her.  "Nice to meet you, Marc.  Got a last name?"

"Scipio," the young black man answered.  "Marcus Scipio."  Thin fingers raked loose curls out of his eyes as Marc said, "And my friends usually call me Marc.  Please."

Rich groaned.  "Oh God, yes.  Until Aidan moved here, I couldn't get them to quit calling me Richie.  I'm Rich Ryan, Marc.  I used to be Mac's student, and he still dumps me on my butt periodically to remind me to keep practicing.  Nice to meet you."

Marc couldn't help grinning at the enthusiastic young immortal across from him.  Well, maybe young, but Rich just bubbled with too much energy.  He acted the age he looked -- nineteen or so?  "Oh, that's your laundry on the table.  Afraid I ate all the chocolate chip cookies, Rich.  Sorry."

Rich shrugged.  "No problem.  Sorry about the clothes, man."

Adam spoke up in mock amazement.  "Ryan left food somewhere?  Junk food at that?"

"Hell, Adam, there've been stories that once or twice you didn't finish a beer," Rich immediately shot back.  "But it's probably a vicious rumor."

Adam marked a point in the air.  "One for you."  He brought the hand back down and took a sip of the beer, then went on, "But you have got to quit combining chocolate and horror flicks.  You're getting into bad habits, 'old-timer.'"

Joe choked on his beer, trying to figure that one out, and Duncan closed his eyes in resignation.  The Highlander spoke first.  "Do I even want to know?"

Methos said quite seriously, "No, not really.  But don't worry, you wouldn't disapprove too much."

Rich sat there wearing the innocent look he had perfected in a dozen precinct houses over the years.  Aidan sighed and cut the silliness off.  "Marc, the reprobate with the beer is Adam Pierson.  The gentleman attempting vainly to impose order on this merry crowd of mayhem is Duncan MacLeod.  Both of them are my lovers, in case you hadn't figured that out."  She smiled at him, continuing, "No, I don't think you're blind or stupid.  Easier if I admit it so you don't have to dance around it."

Marc took a sip of his water to conceal his surprise; he had no idea why the men weren't fighting over her.  Then he looked up and said, "Well, I'd better not try dancing yet.  You said my footwork's lousy, remember?"

Even Adam smiled at that.  Duncan, however, looked angry rather than amused.  Marc drew back slightly in his chair, flinching away from an upset immortal as the habits of the last two years demanded.  Aidan reached over, setting one hand on her student's shoulder in reassurance.  Adam meanwhile curved his palm along Duncan's jaw to calm him.  "Easy, Mac.  It's done." 

While Marc watched, surprised and reappraising the relationship between the two men, MacLeod leaned into the touch and almost visibly let go of his anger.  "Aye, it is."  Adam slid the hand behind Duncan's shoulders and down to his waist, as they leaned toward each other for a moment, not quite touching.  They straightened up a moment later, but something in the body language was so intensely personal that Marc averted his eyes rather than intrude.

Aidan waited until Marc was calm again before she let go of his arm.  She raised one eyebrow at Duncan.  "Dhonnchaidh?  I thought you liked dancing."

He grinned at her.  "You should know that by now.  Sorry, Marc, it wasn't you I was angry at."

Marc shook his head in relief.  "Well, that's good to know.  Let me see if I've got this straight.  You're Adam, you're... Duncan?  Mac?  Dhonnchaidh?"  The last was said tentatively as he tried to get the consonants straight.

That drew another smile from the handsome man, his dark eyes lighting up with it.  "Duncan, or Mac, or MacLeod.  Nice to meet you, Marc."

"Right, got it, Duncan.  You're Rich, and we need to talk.  Aidan says you can show me how to ride that motorcycle down in the parking lot?"

Rich grinned.  "The Harley?  Sure, anytime.  No problem."

"And you're Joe."  Marc shook his head.  "I don't promise to keep any names straight this week.  I'm terrible at matching them to faces, I'll warn you in advance."

Joe laughed.  "You'll be seeing them pretty much constantly, Marc.  No problem, you'll get it."

The conversation stayed innocuous long enough to place the food orders with the waiter, but once he was gone Aidan leaned against Adam, who was sitting on her right, and asked sweetly, "So what did you do with him?"

"Him who, Aidan?"  Methos took a sip of his beer.

She raised one eyebrow at him, a scornful look on her face.  "The idiot sitting outside Joe's.  At least I assume he was sitting?  I should hope so; he'd been waiting an hour and some."

"Oh, that idiot."

Methos glanced at Rich, who shrugged.  "We had a talk with him about horror films and myths," Rich promptly said, taking up his share of the alibi.  "You know, all the little things for old home week."

Aidan's mouth twitched, trying not to laugh, and she sat up, pressing one knuckle against her lips to control the smile.  She looked down the length of the table at the young redhead whom she was helping to train and asked, "Myths?  Really?  Which ones?"

"Oh, you know, the really... old ones."  Blue eyes looked innocently at Methos, who seemed engrossed in his beer, checking its color and clarity in the light.

Duncan exchanged a look of perfect understanding with Joe.  "You were right.  We should never let them go anywhere together.  Between his ideas of property," and Duncan jabbed a thumb toward Rich, "and his concepts of necessary information," and the thumb now indicated Methos, "I start thinking Aidan is straightforward."

Joe nodded in complete agreement.  "They do seem to have a hard time coming out with straight answers, don't they?"

Rich immediately said, "Hey, I know I'm straight, Joe!"  Then he realized what kind of teasing he'd just left himself open to and hastily continued, "I mean I haven't done any breaking and entering lately."

Methos meanwhile chuckled, "I'm sure the right man could change your mind, Ryan."

Aidan calmly said, "It won't be you this century.  I have plans."

"We're almost at the turn of the century," Methos said speculatively, only to be halted by a quick kiss from Aidan.

Rich just shook his head and ignored it.  Those three were way too wrapped up in each other for him to need to head to the next state just yet.  Or continent.  The younger immortal had nothing against their relationship, hell, he had tentatively accepted that one day he might get involved with another guy.  But at the moment women were just too fascinating -- and confusing.  One of these days, someone was going to publish a user's manual, right?  _Chilton's Female, ca. 1973-1976_ , maybe?

Joe took pity on Marc and said, "Don't worry, they always get like this when they don't think anyone will be scandalized.  You'll get used to it.  Feel free to throw a shoe in the direction of the bed if they get too loud at night."  The older man gave Aidan a thoughtful look.  "You do have two floors between your area and his, don't you, Aidan?"

Marc buried his face in hands, abandoning his questions for the moment and laughing helplessly as they kept cracking jokes.  When he regained his composure, there was a large glass of wine in front of him and someone had dropped some Kleenex as well.  He wiped the tears of laughter off his face and took a big gulp of the drink.

His motion drew Aidan's eye, and Marc wondered for a moment if she'd ever really taken all of her attention off him since she had taken him on as a student.  The Irish woman glanced over at Rich, who had just taken a sip of tea, and said pleasantly, "So which of you took his head?"

Rich promptly proved that yes, you can exhale tea through your nose.  Joe said mildly, "Aidan, that really wasn't nice," and passed him a napkin.

Duncan chuckled and said, "Oh, trust me, Aidan, Adam did."

Aidan chuckled and said, "Well, that explains the smile on your face.  Did you two save me a little energy?"  Adam lounged back into his chair, looking like the cat who'd wandered into the creamery.

Marc flushed a bit, all too aware how long it had been since he'd taken anyone to bed.  After a moment, though, the hormones vanished as adrenaline kicked in.  His mind replayed exactly what Aidan had said and decided he had heard it correctly.

"Christopher's dead?"  His voice was astonishingly level so far as the others were concerned.

Aidan watched him carefully, not sure how he'd react to having another pillar yanked out from under him.  Henslowe had abused Marc, she had no doubt, with words and fists.  Rape had not been part of it, at least; she was equally sure of that from his body language and reactions to Duncan and Methos.  _Still he represented himself as the boy's teacher for two years,_ bean amaideach _, and filled the void left by a family that thought Marc was dead.  I'm an idiot, indeed; I should have waited to ask that...._

Methos kept his voice even, thank Gods; pushing buttons now could start a fight, and Aidan had no doubt he knew that would infuriate her.  "Yes, he is."

Marc nodded once, obviously thinking furiously but not letting any emotions show on his face.  Now that he'd gotten some rest and begun to relax, he had enough energy to play poker with even a roomful of new immortals.  A momentary quirk of eyebrow and lip made Aidan think he was surprised by the group's silence.  _Does he think we won't give him a chance to consider this?_

After long, tense minutes, Rich broke the silence.  "We didn't have much choice, Marc.  He was laying in wait for one of us."  The young street rat tried to duplicate Mac's best reasonable, sympathetic tone, and did it fairly well.

Marc looked over at him, amber eyes meeting blue, and said quietly, "Yeah, I know he was.  He'd have killed me if you all hadn't killed him first."

Methos nodded once, his own expression impassive.  "Yes, he would have.  Once Aidan wouldn't fight you, you were a liability as far as he was concerned."

"You guys ever heard of breaking things gently?" Joe said sarcastically, although his tone softened remarkably as he turned to Aidan's new student.  "Hell, Marc, you okay?"

"What, because someone I lived with for two years was going to throw me out with today's newspaper?" Marc answered bluntly.  "Oh, sure."  His shoulders slumped back down as his mood altered and his voice was quieter when he said, "No, I think I knew it would come to this.  I'm not... I couldn't be what Christopher said he wanted.  And he'd have killed me for that sooner or later, but I didn't want to think about it."

Duncan said quietly, "It's rough when you can't live up to what you think you're supposed to -- whether or not it's right, whether or not it's what you wanted to be.  Don't kick yourself too hard, Marc."

Rich said nothing, but his eyes told Marc that he knew exactly how it felt to have his world come down around his ears, and that he sympathized.

Marc took a deep breath and said, "Speaking about right....  Rich, did you really try to steal a sword from Duncan?"  From the corner of his eye he saw Adam tilt his head, looking thoughtful, then lift his beer bottle in an unobtrusive salute as the subject changed radically and stayed off Henslowe for the rest of the dinner.

Much later, after plenty of food, and a bottle of wine between the table, Rich stood up and dropped some money to cover his share.  "Sorry, gentlemen, lady, but the night is young...." 

Aidan chuckled and asked, "What's her name this time?"

"Since you have to ask, Aidan, her name is Cara.  And I will have you know, I met her at the Library," Rich answered in mock indignation.

"Oh, that bar down the street from the university?" Mac asked, sounding interested.

"Come on, Mac, I do occasionally date the ones with brains."  Rich rolled his eyes.  "I'm getting out of here before you all keep harping on this sweet, intelligent lady, who just happens to have the good taste to date me."

Marc laughed out loud at that and said, "I'll see you in the morning, Rich."

"Good to meet you, Marc.  You a night owl or one of these deranged morning people?"

"Night owl, usually.  Not lately, though.  Why?"

Rich shrugged.  "Didn't want to wake you up collecting the rest of my laundry tonight.  Okay I get it tomorrow?"

"That's fine," Marc assured him.

"Cool.  See you later, folks."

After he left, Marc sighed and sank back into his chair.  "Is Rich always so--"

Joe grinned.  "Enthusiastic?  Energetic?"

"Lecherous, actually," Marc answered dryly.

Adam smiled at that.  "One night and you've got him pegged.  Nice work.  The boy goes through more girlfriends than Don Juan did.  Although he was overrated."

"Enough, Adam, leave Rich alone.  At least his last three girlfriends have had IQs larger than their combined measurements.  He's getting better."  Aidan sounded mildly exasperated, as if this were a long-standing argument.  "Besides, he hasn't married any of them, now has he?"

"Yes, well, mine had money and lands, at least," Methos retorted immediately.

"Yes.  Vast tracts of land, actually," Aidan riposted, deliberately quoting Monty Python to watch Methos grin despite himself.

Duncan leaned forward and propped his chin on both hands.  "Now this sounds interesting, Aidan.  Which wife was the zaftig idiot?"

Marc asked Adam, "You've been married?"

Duncan broke in before Methos could answer and said dryly, "Oh, once or twice."  His male lover gave him a 'you'll get yours later' look and the Highlander just grinned in anticipation.

Joe broke in and said, "Folks, let's take this back to my place or Aidan's, where we can be noisier."  He left unspoken the words, 'and more private.'  Quite casually he told Aidan, "And I'm buying Marc's dinner tonight.  About time somebody in this crowd properly appreciates Billie Holliday."

Marc said quietly, "Thanks, Joe.  But let me know if you need anything done around the bar, all right?"

Joe saw the tense body, the strained mouth, and nodded, saying, "Bet on it, Marc.  How do you think I get my repairs done?  I buy these four steaks and beer.  Works like a charm.  What can you do, so I'll know when you get the call?"

"Floor plans, blueprints, find contractors, argue with contractors, blackmail contractors -- those last two are separate skills, by the way," he added gravely.  "And I've been known to use hammer and soldering iron, but I don't do plumbing.  Sorry.  Or glass.  But roofing shingles, floor jacks, and dry wall are old friends."

Aidan looked very pleased.  "Wonderful.  Joe, don't steal him too often.  I have plans for his time.  Shall we head to my place, then?"

Marc noticed that all of them tipped well, and that Adam was completely sober despite the number of beers he'd put away.  None of them seemed to notice alcohol much, and he was glad that he'd stuck to one glass of wine.  Now that he was more awake, he finally noticed Joe's cane and odd stride.  To his embarrassment, Joe saw his curiosity.

"Stepped on a landmine in Vietnam," the bluesman said in a matter-of-fact tone.  "Don't worry, at least you're honest about staring.  I use prosthetics most of the time."

Marc nodded then.  "Okay.  One leg or both?"

"Both.  About mid-thigh.  Damn, you must have been tired this morning."

"I thought I was dead this morning," Marc answered bluntly.  "I wasn't feeling curious.  Ready to go?"

Joe answered equally bluntly.  "Yeah.  Come on, Aidan usually has real cream and she always has good coffee in the house."

As they walked out the door, Marc gave his new teacher a plaintive look.  "You have real coffee?  And you didn't tell me?"

The last thing Duncan and Adam heard as they got into the T-bird was Aidan saying, "If I'd known you were a caffeine fiend, Marc, I'd have poured two mugs down you before dinner."

~*~*~*~*~

Marc sipped his coffee gratefully, appreciating the dark brew and fresh cream.  Besides, it gave him something to apparently focus on while he unobtrusively studied the people he was going to be spending the next few years with.  The relationship between the three older immortals was obviously... intricate.  Duncan seemed to be the strong one in the group, the person they all deferred to.  The group centered around him by unspoken consensus, both as the central point on many of the relationships and as an inborn leader.  However, here in Aidan's quarters, which sprawled across the entire fifty by fifty second floor, he let Adam support him.

Adam had sprawled out on the couch, one leg along the black cushions and the other on the floor.  Once there, he pulled Duncan back against his chest.  The Scot had moved at his directions without ever breaking a word of the conversation, wrapping one olive-skinned hand into the fingers of the paler hand around his waist.  Aidan and Joe both seemed to think this was normal, although the mortal barkeeper had laughed at them, saying something about Duncan didn't quite have the boneless posture down yet.

Adam, meanwhile, seemed perfectly at ease holding the other man and talking to both Marc and Joe about small things:  who was going to be playing at Joe's bar, or the merits of different blues and jazz bands, with a brief diversion on the finer points of dark beer.  Aidan called out opinions from the kitchen area while she started a second pot of coffee, then came over with her own mug and one for Joe.

Aidan passed Joe his coffee and moved back to the couch where Duncan and Adam were sprawled.  Marc had pulled over chairs for himself and Joe, once the Watcher had pointed out his favorite, and Adam had dropped a cushion on the floor for Aidan.  The Irish woman leaned against the couch and sighed in contentment as Duncan reached down to run his hand through her hair.  Her shoulders relaxed a little, head tilted back against her two lovers and eyes closed as Duncan kept stroking her hair.

For the next hour or so, the conversation ranged across any topic except immortality and the Game.  Tentative plans were made to see a couple of movies over the next week or so in the middle of a raging debate over the merits of Jackie Chan movies.  When the conversation changed to gossip about unfamiliar people, Marc quit paying much attention to it.  Instead, he got up and browsed the bookshelves, finally curling back up in his chair with a Calvin & Hobbes collection.  The conversation never missed a beat, and no one seemed to mind him staying out or sticking his nose in with an opinion every so often.

Aidan glanced up around 10:30 and shook her head.  "I wondered how long he'd last, coffee or no."  She stood in one lazy movement and carefully removed the cartoons from Marc's hand.  "Back in a minute, gentlemen."

Duncan stood up as well.  "Don't wake him, Aidan.  He doesn't look that heavy."

"Thank you, Dhonnchaidh."  Aidan spoke over her shoulder to Joe, saying, "Don't feel you have to leave, Joe."

"Good," Joe said peaceably.  "I'm enjoying the company and the coffee too much to want to leave just yet, anyway."

The Highlander scooped Marc up, lifting the young man's weight easily and frowning when he did.  Aidan saw the anger on his face and shook her head, one finger to her lips to keep him from saying anything.  Marc stirred restlessly when Duncan moved him, then fell silent again when Aidan murmured to him in Italian.

After the elevator had headed upstairs, Joe looked over at Methos and said, "So what's the problem?"

Gold-green eyes regarded him mockingly.  "What problem?"

"Come on, old man, you've been dodging any serious discussion all night.  You even resisted four or five perfect straight lines about Erin.  So.  What's wrong?"

Methos sighed and answered, "The feeling that just out of the corner of my eye a tsunami is building, Joe.  Something is wrong or going wrong as we speak.  Bora Bora is starting to look very, very good."

"And Mac won't run."  It wasn't a question.  Joe knew Duncan MacLeod too well; he might run from his own demons, but he wouldn't run from a fight.

"No.  And Edana just tied herself to a student."  Methos shrugged.  "So I'll do what I can to make sure we win."

That drew a curious look, then Joe said thoughtfully, "We?"

"We.  This isn't a challenge coming, Joe, or not an ordinary one.  It will be for all of us.  However, what do you think of Edana's new student?"  The level look from Methos told his mortal friend very clearly that the topic was closed for the moment.

~*~*~*~*~

The drapery fell and blocked most of the light from the window.  Silence fell with it, broken only by a rustle of sheets as Aidan twisted onto her side, her back to Methos.  Duncan gave it a few minutes, his head pillowed on Methos' chest, but before he could say anything, though, the older man squeezed his waist tightly and that lazy, sardonic British voice cut across the night with the precision of his sword.  "He's going to break your heart, Edana."

"Maybe."  She gave away nothing with her tone.  "Probably.  I don't know yet, Methos.  It's like watching a sapling that someone had started to bend into shape.  He's been cut free, but I'm not sure yet what the original shape was, or how much he'll rebound."

"He doesn't have an instinct to kill, Edana."  Methos' voice was remorseless in the dark, as dangerous now as it had been seductive earlier.  "The boy won't make it in the Game."

"He's Italian, Methos, no matter what he looks like.  He has a temper from hell under that controlled mask; I've already caught glimpses of it.  It can be unleashed."  Anger began to rise up in her own voice.  "And if I can't teach him, I'll send him to Gina and Robert and let her do it.  That would leave me time for Tracy, Goddess knows."

"Edana, he could kill in a rage, but that won't make it in the Game.  He has to be able to control himself enough to win, and then control his revulsion to kill when he has won.  The first he may manage, but I don't think he can do the latter."  The oldest immortal paused for a beat, then cut over his former student's voice.  "And neither do you."

Duncan broke in, then, before it could get out of hand.  "Enough, you two.  Methos, you may be right, but she won't turn him away now and you know it.  You're making this worse for no good reason.  Aidan, don't throttle him.  He's cold-blooded enough without us having a corpse in the bed.  And he's only trying to protect you."

Aidan snapped, "I know that.  Gods damn this Game!  I'm sick of it!"

Methos twisted out from under Duncan's body, curling around her back and pulling her into his arms.  Duncan simply rolled out of the bed and through the curtains.  By the time the Scot climbed in to cradle her on the other side, his lovers had moved to the middle of the bed.

"I couldn't do it, Methos.  I couldn't kill him, and I couldn't turn him loose.  It's not his fault Henslowe killed him, but merciful Goddess, Magister, the boy would be dead again within two days, lose his head inside a month!  How would I be rid of his ghost then?"

A long sigh was her only answer, then Methos said quietly, "He knows that Henslowe killed him?"

"No.  I pieced it together from his story," she told him tiredly.  "If not Henslowe, then Owain.  But I think it was Henslowe."

"You're probably right."  Methos fell silent, then told her, "I don't want to see you hurt, Edana.  But it's too late, isn't it?"

"Probably.  Gods, Methos.  At least I don't have to teach this one control."  She shrugged, an interesting diversion to the men as she lay naked between them.  "And he does have a temper, Magister.  He snapped at me this morning because he thought I'd insulted him."

Duncan asked curiously, "What did you do?"

"Looked surprised that he's an architect.  I just thought he was awfully young.  He thought I was looking at skin color.  If he knew about some of my husbands...."  She chuckled at that, then added, "Or Mandisa, for that matter."

" _Mo chridhe_."  Duncan rubbed her back with strong hands, his legs tangled with hers and Methos'.  "There's no escaping the Game.  We all know that.  Not for long.  Give it a few weeks, see what shows up.  For that matter, let him run around with Rich.  I think we're all agreed that Marc is  too controlled.  Rich, on the other hand, isn't controlled enough.  Fine, let's let the two rub off on each other.  Do them both good."

"Not a bad idea at all," she said thoughtfully.  "In a week or so, though.  He's still too frightened.  He thinks an angry immortal equals a beating.  He cowers, Duncan, did you notice?"

"I saw.  A week, Aidan?  That's fairly quick to heal this."

Methos said calmly, "He's resilient, Mac, or he'd be dead.  And he deals well with women.  Also, he trusts Joe, which, while no great surprise, may be very useful."

"All of those are useful, Methos, but it's the resilience, primarily.  A week of rest and real food, of not being beaten, not being starved into submission or obedience, will make a huge difference.  And I've noticed that all I have to do to get his whole-hearted cooperation in something is to tell him why I need it.  That will be a problem down the line if I let him stay in the habit, but if I explain things over the first few weeks, he'll start assuming that there is a good reason for anything I tell him, and that he'll get it later."

Methos said quietly, "Willing respect is useful, Edana, but do we have time?"

"Methos, if he'd bend to force or fear, I'd know.  He'd have tried harder to kill me.  If two years of being separated from his family and career, starved, beaten, and lied to, didn't do it, Magister, nothing I'm willing to do to him will."  Aidan quietly added, "And I'm not asking you to help.  I know you just lost someone and that the boy probably won't make it a decade at this rate.  If I could keep you away from him, I would.  Would you rather stay with Dhonnchaidh for the next few years?  I've spent twenty-six centuries without being your lover, I can manage another ten or fifteen years."

Duncan drew breath to argue, then shut up.  For the moment.

"I did not wait this long to be chased away by a student," Methos snapped.  "I know you're not asking for help.  You never do.  But what of Duncan?  Hmm?  Which of us does he sleep with?  Where does he sleep?  Do I stay in Seacouver at his place?  Go back to Paris and watch all three of us be miserable?  Make him choose between us?"

A firm hand closed over his mouth, shutting him up, and Duncan said mildly, "Aidan, I begin to understand why you snapped at him for referring to you in the third person that time in Paris."

A muffled snicker from Aidan got her a smack on the rump from Methos.  Her surprised squeak drew a swift grin from Duncan, who inquired, "Are you both through?" 

Methos pinched Aidan's ass, since his hand was already there, and nodded against Duncan's hand.  Of course he was finished -- until his mouth was free.

Aidan said, "That depends, Dhonnchaidh, on what we decide.  We all knew one of us would eventually take another student.  And they take so much time if you do it right.  Regardless, though, if we aren't going to do it right, why do it at all?"  She shrugged again and said, "Give it two weeks or so, to see what mettle he has.  Soon enough for contingencies then."

Duncan ran his fingers over Methos' mouth, not entirely sure what the older man would say but aware that his words were as sharply edged as his broadsword.  "Deal.  What are you going to start him on?"

"Running, I think," Aidan said.  "He needs the stamina.  Some weight work, to put more muscle on him, since I plan to feed the boy.  I may be in trouble there; I rather think he's going to eat like Rich once he starts trusting that food is available without strings attached.  And tai chi and aikido to get him started on stances and balance work.  Time enough in a few weeks for him to figure out that they're deadly.  And Magister?  I won't make either of you choose and you know it."

Methos nipped Duncan's fingers to get his mouth free, then said seriously, "Let's see where the boy is in four weeks and deal with things then.  And yes, I know you only asked for two.  My choice."

"Aidan, not a word.  I mean it." Duncan said fiercely.  "As for you, Methos, one more word about choices, or leaving, and I will beat you until you do remember it in the morning.  You're pushing again.  If she and I both dig in our heels, who in the hell is going to mediate among the three of us?  Hmm?  Amanda?  Damien?"

"Joe?" Methos asked mildly, having given in for the moment.

"No, he doesn't heal fast enough to play marriage counselor to the three of us," Aidan answered.  "Connor might be able to do it.  No, I know who," she said in grave tones.  "Definitely no fighting, gentlemen."

"Why not?"  Now both men were curious.

"Because I seem to remember that Gina and Robert offered to return the favor you two did them.  'If it ever became necessary,' I believe Gina said.  It would be safer to send Connor a paternity claim from a prize Merino ewe," Aidan said, keeping her voice level with an effort.

Methos roared with laughter at the thought of Connor's face when he was accused of impregnating a sheep.  Duncan chuckled despite himself, but he quickly wrapped one arm over Aidan's ribs, trapping her arms against Methos.  "Disrespectful wench!  Methos, I don't think we should tolerate that kind of treatment."

"She was talking about Connor, not us," the slender man pointed out, curious as to where the Scot was taking this.

"This time," Duncan growled, trapping her legs as well, just in time.  Aidan began to squirm in a determined effort to get free, although she hadn't pulled out her dirtier tricks yet.

"Do you know, you've got a point?"  Methos laughed.  "Besides, Edana, the only thing you're doing is convincing me that tickling you could be fun."

"She's squirming enough already," Duncan growled, nipping at the back of her neck and then licking.

Aidan groaned against Methos' chest and asked, "Are we fighting or not?"

"Over Marc?  Not.  Over what to do with you?  You tell me," Methos said in a lazy voice as he tangled one hand in her braid, pinning her in place.  "If you can think of an answer we'll like."

"Who wants the middle?" Aidan gasped.  It was the last question of the night.

~*~*~*~*~

  


2 days later

Marc sagged against the side of the Range Rover, forcing himself to stay upright to ease his breathing.  The metal was blessedly cool under his fingertips and he turned just far enough to rest his forehead against moisture-beaded glass.  Aidan smiled at the sight, but said nothing.  Instead she handed him a towel for his face.  After a few seconds, the young man pushed off the car and began walking in circles to cool down a bit before stretching.  When he glanced over, his new teacher was doing something that looked sort of like one of the stretches from the morning's aikido class and a bit like ballet.

"Aidan?  What is that?  The stretch, I mean."  A couple of Army men who'd been pacing them on the last lap of the park's one-mile track waved as they went by.  Marc hesitated, then waved back.

" _Natarajasana_ ," she answered promptly.  "If you want it in English, call it Balance Posture.  I know, it looks like a thigh stretch mutating into an arabesque, doesn't it?"

That drew a grin from him.  "Yeah, it does, I think.  I think that's what Josie called that move anyway. How can you stand like that?"

"Practice, m'boy, practice," she drawled in an accent nothing like her usual lilt.  When Marc still looked blank, she chuckled and said, "W. C. Fields.  Don't worry.  Actually, it is good practice for balance, but I'll let you off the hook for a year or so on the yoga.  I'll settle for tai chi right now."

"Gee, thanks," he muttered sarcastically, then checked swiftly to see if she had heard.  Her face hadn't changed, so he wasn't in trouble, thank goodness.  Marc swung one leg up to the beam the park had provided for people to do stretches and leaned, burying his own face against the sweats.

Inwardly, Aidan smiled.  _Sarcasm already?  I'll be happier when he thinks he can say it to my face, but that's a much better start than I'd hoped for.  Good.  Not broken, just bent. That can be healed._  Without a word, she moved into the next stretch.

After they had both cooled off and were headed back to the house, Aidan asked, "How are you holding up, Marc?  We pushed pretty hard on that last mile."

"I'm fine.  When I was with Christopher we did a lot of walking."  Marc shrugged and said, "If we wanted to go anywhere, it frequently involved hiking and canoeing, maybe some driving if he wanted to go into town."

"Where were you?  Or would you rather leave that alone for awhile?"

After a brief silence, Marc replied, "Later.  Please."

"That's fine," she answered pleasantly.  "Any preferences on what to do tonight?"

"I--"  Marc broke off and controlled his first disbelieving question of 'I get a choice?'   More thoughtfully he asked, "What are some of the options?"

"Depends on whether you want company or not.  If you're too tired to put up with people, Adam and I have been contemplating the Scrabble board for a couple of nights.  You're free to play or explore the house.  There are also movies at the theater that most of us -- Joe, Rich, and Adam -- want to see, if you can take a small number of people.  Or there's a jazz combo at Joe's tonight, and he swears the sax player is excellent.  Any of it sound good?"

The young man thought about that for a second.  On the one hand, crowds of people were still an odd experience after two years with almost no one for company except Christopher.  On the other hand, he'd grown up in Philadelphia, not exactly the smallest town in the world.  A shiver rolled over him at the thought of crowds of people pressing up against him, unknown strangers....

"Joe's, if that's okay.  The music sounds good."  _Right, a compromise.  I'm not staying home and holing up in my room like some wounded animal, I'll climb back up on the horse -- but I'll settle for a nice, sedate mare, not some over-bred skittish stallion who spooks at fallen leaves.  A few people at a booth or table, and a room full of folks listening to music I can probably cope with.  A crowded movie theater, with people between me and the exits might be another story._

"That sounds fine, Marc."  The approving tone in her voice made Marc glad he'd decided to go out.

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 4

The ring of steel on steel and the whine of blades skidding apart broke the still afternoon air in the house.  Marc was halfway to the spiral stair before he had realized he was moving.  Taking the stairs two and three at a time, he spun around the central post and saw Adam and Duncan fighting in the third floor practice area.  Details registered in part of his mind:  Duncan's hair half out of its usual ponytail, the ivory hilt of his katana, and bare feet falling back smoothly from Adam's rush.  The paler, slender immortal struck two-handed again and again at the darker Scot, gold-green eyes narrowed in concentration and his broadsword less a weapon than an extension of his arms and will.

What frightened Marc was the underlying intensity of the fight; neither man was smiling.  Both of them wore almost blank expressions of concentration and the speed of the blows and parries was terrifying.  What the hell kind of practice session left clothes ripped, blood on the floors?  Had they finally decided they weren't going to share Aidan's attentions?  Then Marc realized his teacher was standing beside the elevator watching them, her face intent and annoyed.  His feet didn't quite give out under him, but the young immortal sat down on the stair step more abruptly than he'd intended.

Adam ducked under one of Duncan's strikes and managed to gouge the Scot's thigh, broadsword immediately swinging up to block the return swing from the katana.  Aidan's voice cut across the quiet, calling, "Duncan!  What do you think you're doing?"

"It seemed like a good idea at the time," the Highlander yelled back, dropping back and going on the defensive as Adam began to press him even harder, trying to force Duncan to balance on the wounded leg.  When all of Duncan's attention was on the broadsword, Adam swept the Scot's legs out from under him, dumping him on his butt on the floor.  Almost casually, the broadsword swung down and stopped just at Duncan's throat.

Marc tightened his grip on the wooden tread of the stairs until it hurt, nearly drew blood.  If this was a challenge, he couldn't interfere -- but damn it, he liked Duncan!  Then he watched, shocked, as Adam lowered his arm, sword coming to rest at his side.  He reached down with one hand and pulled Duncan up, shaking his head.  "I told you that sequence wouldn't work, Mac."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, you tried to tell me you could win the wrestling match, too," Duncan answered easily, checking to see if the wound had closed yet.  "Damn, and I liked these sweats.  Do you know how hard it is to find the ones with drawstrings anymore?"

Adam yanked him in for a quick, hard kiss that widened Marc's eyes.  "You stuck the leg out there, Mac."

"I did not," Duncan grumbled.  "And you're not getting out of practicing just because you were right about that attack."

Aidan laughed and said, "When are you going to learn not to disagree with him on these things, Dhonnchaidh?  I will grant that you didn't extend your leg, but you didn't take it far enough with you when you moved, which is almost the same thing."

"Irish wench," Duncan grumbled.  "I haven't seen you over to spar the last two days."

"I've been busy," she pointed out.

"And you keep workout clothes up here, too," Adam pointed out.  "Change.  About time you practiced against multiple opponents again."

"Yes, oh my master," Aidan replied sarcastically as she headed towards the dressers near the stairs.  Both men laughed.

"Just move, Edana," Adam replied.  "Come on, MacLeod, I'll show you the right block for that maneuver."

Marc hadn't managed to move yet, in part from shock over the fight, partly from surprise over Duncan and Adam's kiss.  But any words he might have managed to speak died a quick death in his throat.  He was still a good ten feet over the floor on the stair, but a few feet away, his teacher was stripping off... all her clothes?  Jeans were thrown onto the top of the dresser full of sweats, socks kicked neatly out of the way next to it.  Pale skin shone smoothly over muscle, and he couldn't help staring.  Amber eyes widened even more when he saw the shortsword concealed under her flannel shirt.  The straps holding it had rubbed creases in the light-weight t-shirt which went the way of the flannel.  She hadn't bothered with a bra, Marc noticed vaguely.  Aidan rubbed at the marks in her skin almost absently as she dug in the wardrobe with her free hand.

She turned around, a leather vest in one hand and some cut-off sweats in the other, and glared at the two men.  "Adam, show him the move if you're going to do so.  Men.  Easily distracted."

The two men glanced at each other, then shrugged.  "A choice of watching you squirm into tight leather or practicing a sword block I haven't needed yet in four hundred years?  Come on, Aidan," Duncan chided.  "Give me credit for some sense."

"I'll give you credit for having a libido," the woman laughed.

"What, are you paying for it these days?"  Adam asked brightly, and Duncan slapped him on the back of the head, none too gently. 

Aidan pulled the leather on and laced it up the front, then dropped the ends of the strings inside the halter.  "Did you get that right, do you think?  Because if I'm giving credit, that probably means I'm charging for it.  Do you just want to cook for the next week?"

"Not the way Rich eats," Duncan warned him immediately, as he walked over to one wall.  "Saber and dagger, Aidan, or scimitar?"

"Neither."  Tying the drawstring on her shorts, she paced behind him and lifted a plain, clean-lined longsword off the wall.  Pulled from its sheath, the characteristic dappling of Damascus steel winked under the light.  The unadorned cord-wrapped hilt fit smoothly into her palm and the young-looking woman smiled as she swung it experimentally through a few strokes to get the feel of the weight again.

"I've never seen you use that one," Duncan commented curiously.

"An old friend," Aidan answered almost reverently.  "Remember the blade that Stengel left for me?"

"The broken replica longsword.  They do look a bit alike," Duncan nodded.  "I see what you mean, though, _luaidh_.  She never does use ornamented weapons."

Adam shrugged.  "Haven't you shown Mac your katana yet, Edana?"

"No, I haven't.  It's downstairs, hidden in the bed frame.  Remind me after dinner, Dhonnchaidh.  Are you two ready?"

Duncan laughed.  "Are we doing two on one, or is someone sitting out?"

"Two on one," Aidan answered.  "I'll take the one, for now.  I need the practice."

"You just wish Connor were here to help you out," Adam commented as he began circling her.

Duncan slid into position 180 degrees from Adam, forcing Aidan to strike and slide out and away from their entrapment.  The Scot saw movement in the corner of his eye and turned, trusting Methos to keep Aidan's blade off him for the moment.  Marc was sitting near the top of the spiral stair, watching the three older immortals with a confounded look on his face.  Duncan found himself wondering how long the youngster had been there; it might have been one hell of a show.

Aidan glanced up to see what had Duncan's attention and also saw Marc.  One hand went up to slow Methos' attack, then she said cheerfully, "You going to watch or did you want to spar?"

"I'll watch."  He tried to sound neutral, maybe even blasé.  All things considered, he did pretty well, although the knowing look in Adam's eyes almost made Marc blush.

"Go sit in front of the elevator, then, or by that radiator," she said, pointing to the one across the room from the elevator.  "Those are the best views for the entire room, and even a wooden tread is not exactly a comfortable place to sit for long."

Marc moved quickly to do just that.  He really didn't want to spar these three -- they were way too fast.  Aidan spun in and out of their attacks, using her entire body as a weapon.  Her darting strikes and evasions barely compensated for Duncan's strength and Adam's ability to maneuver her into unpleasant spots.  Neither man was exactly slow, and both were stronger than Aidan.  Watching his new teacher take a strike across the back of her shoulder without a sound, the penalty she paid to get past an especially good trap, one thought spun through his mind.  _Christopher sent me to fight her?  Or is that them?  Oh, God...._

~*~*~*~*~

  


Morning 5

"Aidan?!  Come on, woman, it's barely dawn!"

Rich parried desperately a second time, driving her saber back and taking the dagger slice across his wrist as he tried to back up.  Part of his mind was pulling up every counter he could think of, staying purely on the defensive for the moment as he worked toward clear space.  Unfortunately, he hadn't tidied the basement lately; unencumbered footing was at a premium.  Once Rich added in the fact that Aidan loved mornings while he preferred to sleep through them, and the fact that she was moving forward as he backpedaled....  The younger immortal knew without thinking about it that the polluted creek was flowing fast and his paddle might just be defective or missing.

Panic kept bubbling up, an insistent desire to associate this with Mac's assault while he was under the influence of the Dark Quickening.  But Rich chanted his mantra to himself silently as he barely held the Irish immortal off.  _She did warn me.  She did warn me.  She did warn me...._

Quick blue eyes spotted an opening in her patterns, a slight miscalculation of timing that was leaving Aidan open right about-- _There!_

Unfortunately, his lunge forward brought his foot down squarely on a high-top sneaker, and Rich went down, feeling/hearing his ankle pop.  Years of practice with Mac and time on his own in the Game kept the sword in his hand, but his vision whited out for a moment in pain.  He brought his saber back across his body in a block that was only barely too late.

More pain exploded up his arm, going all the way to the backs of his eyes as Aidan dropped to one knee and slammed the hilt of her dagger against the back of his sword hand.  Muscles and bones opened in spastic response and his sword fell, landing on his stomach.  The only good thing was that the edge had been toward her.  His saber was only double-edged for ten inches along the tip; it didn't slice into him when it fell.

Then the edge of Aidan's dagger pressed his sword wrist back and toward the floor, and her sword's point lay against the tip of  his throat, a bead of blood threatening to ooze through his fair skin and stain the bright steel.  "You're dead, Rich."

"You did that deliberately!"  Rich sagged back against the floor and yelped as that changed the position of his leg.  "Ah, shit!"

The Irish woman shook her head, the twitch of her lips the only sign she was trying not to smile.  "Yield?"

"Yeah, damn it.  But you opened your defenses deliberately!"

"I'm rather proud of you for seeing the opening," was the mild reply to that.  "But I accept your surrender."  Aidan sheathed both weapons at once with the unthinking certainty of practice, as if the blades wouldn't dare not be in the sheaths when she let go.  "Let me see your leg.  That sounded like a bone giving."

"Trust me, it was,"  Rich growled, drawing a deep breath against the pain.  "God, why does bone take so long to heal?"

"Because nothing in life is truly simple," she muttered.  "Deep breath, Rich.  Got it; now, exhale."  Her fingers had settled onto his foot and shin carefully, barely jostling him as she felt for the grip she needed.  As Rich emptied the air out of his lungs she waited until the younger immortal was just getting ready to inhale and only then straightened the bone, tugging his foot back into proper alignment in one deft move.  What wanted to be a scream emerged as a strangled, inhaling gurgle of pain.  But the actinic flare across his senses settled quickly as the bones began to knit.

"What did you do that for?"

"It will heal more quickly if you set the bone rather than making the quickening align everything.  How's your hand?"

"Fine.  Bruises are already fading," he sighed, looking at the back of his hand in time to see the imprint of her dagger pommel outlined in dark green and paling yellow-browns.

"Good.  All right, Rich.  What did you do wrong?"

"Other than go to sleep?" he groused.

"We all sleep," Aidan told him sternly.  "You've lived on your own and gotten sleep safely.  Try again."

Blue eyes considered the deep purple boxers which were his sole clothes.  "Didn't wear enough to bed?"

"You wasted attention worrying about what you were wearing to fight, you mean.  If you have to kill without a stitch, Rich, or in winter clothes so thick you can barely move, your only care should be for mobility.  Decency is a matter to considered after you know you'll live.  What else?"

"Slept too hard," he admitted.  "I know better.  But I thought I was safe."

"Even when you're safe, you need to wake up quickly and completely at need.  We'll keep this up until you can.  But neither of those is as bad as the oh so minor detail you haven't mentioned.  Why did you lose, Rich?"

"Because I fell... oh."  Aidan watched silently and let him work that out for himself, seeing thoughts and emotions chase themselves over Rich's mobile face.  Embarrassment and chagrin turned to startled comprehension and subsided to a thoughtful look as he reconsidered things he had seen and noticed.

"This is why Duncan and Connor like open spaces."

"Yes," she agreed.  "What else?"

"This is why you and Duncan are so fanatical about putting things back where they belong, immediately.  Why you tidy everything before you go to bed."  Rich looked up at her, a wicked smile suddenly lighting his face.  "And why you put extra care into waxing the floors in front of the freight elevator and the stairs."

"Yes," she agreed, her grey eyes dancing for a moment with malicious merriment.

"Hey, the old man makes a mess all the damn time."

"Only in Duncan's loft," she told him calmly.  "You've never seen his apartment.  He makes me and Duncan look sloppy.  Well, other than the piles of books, but even those are against walls or heavy furniture where they won't go all over the floor."

"Then why does he leave his stuff all over the place at Mac's?" Rich pushed.

"Simple.  He doesn't want Duncan to be able to ignore him.  But have you noticed?  The 'mess' can be swiftly cleared away.  It only looks bad because he wants it to be noticeable.  Coats go from couch to rack quickly enough; shoes are easily thrown into place behind the door; beer bottles swept into the trash swiftly, and he never has more than two out at any one time."  Aidan glanced at him to see if he was listening, then added, "And an enemy coming in the door would find out that Magister has a very strong throwing arm and impeccable aim.  Any other questions?"

"Yeah.  What brought this on?"

"Did I or did I not warn you a week ago that I was going to be ambushing you until you were always alert?"

"Yeah, well, you got a student, two days later, too," Rich pointed out.  "I didn't figure it still applied."

"Next time?  Ask.  I am going to continue assaulting you off and on until you make this alertness a reflex, Rich, an unthinking, automatic reaction, when and as needed.  I don't want to lose you to carelessness.  To a better fighter, I would understand and loathe, but I'll not see you dead on account of sloth."  Aidan nodded once, briskly, as if to shut the subject off in her own mind.

"Now, Duncan's still expecting you to teach classes, but I would strongly recommend you put some time into organizing and cleaning up down here.  Because I'm going to hit you in every weak point I can find, Risteard, until you protect yourself without thinking, with any weapon you can find, or with whatever limb you can afford to have out of commission for a fight.  Do you understand?"

"I'm not paranoid, you really are out to get me," Rich sighed.  "Got it.  But interrupt me while I'm cleaning and I'll sling the soapy water at you."

"And that would be no bad idea," she complimented him.  "Soap in the eyes can assuredly make a fight more difficult for your opponent.  Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes:  toast, fruit, and cheese this morning."  Aidan turned and walked up the stairs to the first floor.

"Hey, Aidan?"

"Yes?"

"I may need to borrow some of the stuff out of the storage room to put everything up."

"And if I said no?" she asked in a contemplative tone.  "What would you do then?"

"Hey, bricks and boards have worked for me before and we definitely have those."  Rich shrugged and pulled himself up on a chair, settling onto the arm to wait for her assent or refusal.

"Good.  You're getting the idea.  Ask me or Marc if you need extra arms for the furniture, Rich."

He watched her up the stairs.  Only once Aidan was gone did Rich turn and look over the basement, and sigh.  "For furniture, maybe.  But I wonder if Marc'd help me unpack and sort out some of these boxes?"  And he went to work on the path between the stairs and his bed, wanting to create partial order before facing food and the rest of the day.

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 9

The phone rang insistently -- three times, four, five....

Aidan never glanced up from the spear form she was working her way through, although her occasional phrases when she paused to remember a move sounded like they must be obscene.  Adam and Duncan ignored her comments, more occupied with trying to push each other off balance.  Marc watched them intently since they were using some of the tai chi that Aidan had been teaching him so patiently.  She'd sworn up and down that his build was close enough to Adam's that watching this would probably help, and definitely not hurt.

However, the ringing phone was getting on his nerves after two years of silence in the back of beyond.  At last Marc growled and stalked down the stairs to answer it, since the answering machine hadn't.

"Logan residence."  Marc kept his voice calm; it wasn't the caller's fault that he would rather be watching the sparring match upstairs.

A cheerful male voice with a Californian's crisp, almost non-existent accent said, "No, no, no, we're looking for Aidan Logan.  You are definitely not her."

Marc grinned, his mood lifting immediately.  "No, you're right, I'm not.  She's a little busy at the moment, but she'd probably like a distraction.  Who can I tell her is calling?"

"Oh, is she doing taxes?"  This was a different male voice, a little deeper and carrying an undercurrent of laughter.

"No, I think she finished those.  Who is this?"  Marc leaned against the kitchen counter, beginning to enjoy this silly conversation.

"Hmm, I still think rendering unto Caesar really ought to have a due date of the Ides of March, not the Ides of April, but hells, I'm not in the government.  Never stooped to prostitution," said the first voice.

The second voice cut over him, saying, "You're not so tall that you'd need to stoop, Alex.  And whoever you are, would you please tell Aidan that her favorite brothers, Alex and Xan, are calling and she's to get her butt on the phone, immediately.  Feel free to claim that's a direct quote.  I'm Xan; he's Alex.  You are?"

"Confused," Marc promptly answered.  "Hold on, I'll get her."  He put the phone down before they could get him into any more trouble and almost bounced up the stairs to the third floor.

"Aidan?"

She turned around, hearing the laughter her student was barely controlling.  It drew an answering smile from her as she asked, "Who was on the phone?"

"Um -- is.  Is on the phone.  I'm supposed to tell you, quote, to get your butt on the phone, unquote.  Sorry, that's what he said."  Marc's grin grew wider and wider.  "And that it's your favorite brothers, Alex and Xan.  They're still on the line."

Aidan dropped the spear on the floor and ran toward the stair, already crowing with delight.  "Oh, wonderful!  Come along, Marc, you've got to hear this.  But not a sound until I tell you, all right?"

"No problem!  This sounds like fun."  He followed her back down the stairs.

Duncan looked over at Methos.  "Favorite brothers?"

"Come on, MacLeod, you need to be introduced to these two."  Methos waved him toward the stairs and they descended in time to hear male voices over the phone's speaker.

"Well, it took you long enough, Flame.  Slowing down in your old age?" Alex asked.  Marc choked on his laughter, but stifled it behind one hand. 

Aidan called, "I don't know, you may not stay my favorite brothers at this rate.  Where have you two been?!"

"Us?" Xan answered indignantly.  "We had to get your new number from Damien.  You remember Damien, right?  Red hair, short temper, ought to try out for the offensive line with the Dallas Cowboys?"

"Oh, that Damien."  Aidan chuckled.  "I might remember someone by that name.  Only met him once or twice.  What have you two been up to?"  Her voice had to cut over their disbelieving noises. 

"Oh, we took up new professions, Edana.  Alex set up a security company and I've been doing renovations on old houses.  You wouldn't believe the blacksmith I managed to find."

Duncan held up the tea pitcher in Aidan's line of sight and she nodded enthusiastically.  "Yes, I would.  You wouldn't believe the architect I found."

Marc grinned at her and dropped her a flourishing bow copied from one of Adam's sarcastic gestures earlier that week.  Duncan grinned and threw him a two-fingered salute.

She went on, "So where are you living now?"  Adam lounged against the wall, smiling in malicious anticipation.

"Sacramento," Xan answered.  "What are you doing in Seacouver, woman?"

"Getting off the East Coast.  I'd been there too long, Xan.  It was time to move on before the neighbors started noticing that my family ages too well.  For that matter, should you two still be on the West Coast?  You were there the last time we talked."

"Oh, we're back again.  We moved to Athens for a while.  Besides, we were in Portland before; this is safe enough.  So, who's the polite youngster who answered?  Don't tell us you broke down and took another student?"  Alex sounded absolutely gleeful at the idea.

"Broke down.  Broke down?  You have no idea what I've been up to in the last thirty years, Alex, how would you know that I haven't taken three!"  She drowned her indignation in the iced tea Duncan handed her, still grinning.

Xan said practically, "You never turn them out that quickly.  And Damien would have said something about new siblings.  Quit dodging.  He sounded too polite to be one of your lovers, and you always marry the ones with a wicked sense of humor, anyway.  Who was he?  We didn't even get a name."

Aidan chuckled and, seeing Methos opening his mouth to respond, waved at him to be quiet.  "His name is Marc, and you're quite right:  he's not a lover."

"Hah!  You did take a student, then.  How's he doing?  When do we come meet him?"

"Quit gloating, Alex, it's unbecoming.  Considering that Marc's been with me less than a fortnight, he's doing well.  And you can come meet him in a few months.  Now, when's the last time you heard from our... mutual friend?" she asked as she set down the tea.

A brief pause on the other end of the line, then Alex answered more carefully, "Listeners on your end, I take it?"

"Basically?  Yes."  Aidan watched Duncan's eyes light up with mischief and she put her finger to his lips for silence.  He nibbled the end to watch her squirm, but said not a word.

"Ah.  We haven't seen him in a while, dear, but we've had a letter from him about... what, Xan?  Four years ago?"

"Thereabouts, Aidan.  He was in France.  Do you need the name and address?"

Methos assumed a tone of spurious indignation and said, "No, she doesn't, but I'd love to know why you two didn't tell me she was alive."

In a startled voice Alex asked, "Adam?  What are you doing on this side of the Atlantic?"

Xan said more practically, "Wait a second, are we all on speaker phone?"

Adam purred, "No, we've all been on a speaker phone, Xan.  Did you want introductions?"

"Where'd you get one with sound quality that good?  Never mind.  All right, who's over there?"  Switching to Greek, he added, "And do they all know everything?"

"No, they don't," Adam answered in the same language.  "Keep it that way."  Switching back to English, he said, "Alex Daniels, Xan Morgan, on this end we have Duncan MacLeod and Marc Scipio.  Marc is the student, in case you hadn't guessed."

Duncan sounded amused as he said, "Oh, I don't know.  Some days I wonder just who Aidan is training.  Nice to meet you two.  Shall I go away and let you talk with her?"

"No need, Duncan.  Any kin to Connor?"

"My clansman and my teacher, Xan.  You know him?"

"We were on the same side of a war once.  Good to meet you.  Four of you in one place, though?  Gods, that's tempting the Gathering, isn't it?"

Aidan shrugged, then answered, "Not too much, Xan.  And there're five of us in town.  Duncan's student, Rich, isn't over here at the moment or you could talk to him, too.  What are you two doing at Midsummer's?"

"Coming to visit you," was Alex's prompt reply.  "Or do you want to come down here?"

"And miss the best part of the year up here?  Are you joking?  Oh, Xan, I've made a friend you have got to meet.  A blues guitar-player named Joe Dawson."

"That sounds promising," Xan said.  "Adam, you dodged the questions.  What are you doing up there?"

"Did you want the clinical terms or the Anglo-Saxon?"

"Adam!"  Duncan glared at him while trying not to laugh.

Aidan chuckled and said, "Actually I probably could remember most of the Anglo-Saxon, wretch."

"So what's her name?  Or is that his?" Alex said prosaically.

"Oh, I'll introduce you this summer," Adam chuckled.  "It'll be entertaining."

"Damn, Adam, are you hogging the good-looking men again?" Xan demanded, which got a startled look from Marc.  Adam rolled his eyes, but stayed quiet.  "Sister, we really called to give you our number and address; Damien already gave us yours.  Got pen and paper?"

After a quick exchange of data and pleasantries, Aidan finally chased them off the phone, saying she needed to feed her student, thank you very much.  For the rest of the evening, though, Marc was more quiet than usual.  Duncan and Adam carried the conversation at dinner, then headed to Joe's to see him about a business deal he and Adam were working on.  Aidan walked up to the fourth floor with Marc and asked, "Want to talk about it?"

"I don't know.  Just... surprised, I suppose."  Marc flopped onto the couch and fell silent.  Aidan sat more sedately in the matching red armchair to his right and waited patiently.  He gathered his thoughts and finally looked back at his teacher, obviously trying to find the right way to phrase something.

"Are they really brothers of yours?  Alex and Xan, I mean."

Aidan met his eyes steadily.  "As much as anyone ever will be.  They are, and Connor MacLeod, who you haven't met, and some others.  Some of them studied with the same teacher I did, or his students.  But yes, they're my brothers."

"But... you're friends.  I mean, they were really pleased to find you; you were just about dancing all afternoon.  I thought....  What about 'There can be only one?' "

"The Gathering isn't here yet," the Irish woman said harshly.  "It may never get here.  We don't know for sure.  I don't know who came up with the rules.  I don't know if they're real, if the Prize is real.  There are people who believe it is, and they will come for my head.  Fine.  If they try, I'll defend myself.  Some of the immortals out there are bastards who need to die and the courts can't kill them, save in countries such as Saudi Arabia where they still behead criminals.  Them I'll kill.  In the meantime, friends keep us sane, give us a reason to live.  Do you want to give up Rich's friendship?  Or Duncan's?"

"No.  But I was afraid I'd have to."  Amber eyes came up to meet grey, simultaneously scared and full of dawning hope.  "Do you mean I don't have to?"

"No, Marc.  You don't," she said more gently.  "I have friends scattered around the world, mortal and immortal alike.  Always be aware that people change, loyalties can change.  It's... rare to have someone that you can trust completely, can allow at your back with a sword.  When you find a friend like that, cherish him.  Or her.  But we don't have to live in isolation.  Duncan and I have more friends than most, but we both grew up in a clan structure.  Not having friends, extended family, hurts us dreadfully.  We're very vulnerable there and we know it.  Does any of this make sense to you?"

"I'm Italian," the young black man answered simply.  "God, yes, it makes sense."

"Make your friends where you can.  Take your family where you can," Aidan said quietly.  More fiercely she added, "And defend them against all enemies."

Marc nodded thoughtfully.  "Thanks, Aidan."  He grinned suddenly, looking much younger, and said, "I'm looking forward to meeting your brothers."

"Good, because they want to meet you.  Trust me.  That's why they're planning the Midsummer visit, Marc, not just to see me or Adam."

"Are they gay?"

"Where did you get that idea?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.  "Their voices, the way they tease each other... something.  Maybe the way Xan was asking Adam if he was hogging all the men, as if they were competition."

Aidan raised one dark eyebrow, her face otherwise expressionless.  "Does it matter?"

"I don't know.  Does it?"  He kept his face equally calm, although his heart was racing.

"Marc, does it matter to you who or what they sleep with?"

Marc thought about that for a long time, aware that this was a test, and an important one.  His answer came out haltingly at first, then faster and faster.  "Aidan, I don't know.  I mean, my head says it's none of my business, but I was raised to be a good Catholic.  My gut says homosexuality is a sin.  I honestly don't know.  I mean, I knew plenty of gays in college, I was in art history and architecture.  They didn't really bother me, but they weren't really... open about it, you know?  I know that Duncan and Adam kissing or curling up together doesn't bother me."

Aidan waited to see if he was finished.  When she was sure he was, she nodded and said, "Then think about it, Marc.  I'm not angry with you, and I'm not telling you how to think.  However, I will tell you that the fastest way for one of us to get killed is to start labeling and categorizing possible opponents.  Think about that.  And think about how old some of the immortals are and what cultures they may come out of.  We'll talk about this again later."

"All right."  Marc watched her warily.

"Marc, it's your mind.  I won't tell you how to run it.  I'll argue with you if I think you're wrong, but you're entitled to your own opinions."  She grinned suddenly.  "Of course, you're also entitled to get in trouble with those opinions.  Good luck."

"Gee, thanks," he answered sarcastically.  "Get out of here, Teach, you've spent most of the day with me.  Put the alarm on and go listen to Joe play.  I'm gonna watch some movies and get some sleep."

Aidan paused, surprised by the offer.  "Are you sure?"

"Christopher's dead," Marc said bluntly.  "I was only a pawn to Owain; why would he come after me?  And he'd have to get through your alarms to do it.  I can get out of here and run faster than he could get up to me if he did come into town.  Don't worry about it.  Go have a good night with Adam and Duncan."

That got a wide smile.  "Then I will.  Enjoy your peace and quiet, Marc.  Oh, wonderful, I can go dancing!"

The immortal woman was almost dancing already as she went down the staircase, and Marc made a mental note to try to do something like this a bit more often.  Aidan had to get bored spending all her time with a student.  Sighing in resignation, he pulled out the French text he'd found on the first floor and dug into the first chapter.  At least Rich had warned him that the three older immortals liked Paris in the winter.  Surely French couldn't be much worse than Italian.  And he didn't want Aidan to think he wasn't willing to pick up skills on his own.  Time enough to watch _Big Trouble in Little China_ later.

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 14

"So what do you think, Aidan?  One night, I pretend we're glued together, any strange immortal shows up and we're history, gone, out of there."  Rich waved his hands to emphasize his point, finally drawing them together, then up and apart in a magician's gesture which usually included exploding powder.  Laughter quivered in the undertones of his voice and a grin covered his face.

Aidan just kept right on chopping cranberries for the bread she was making.  "Pass me an orange, would you, Rich?"  After another minute's work, she scraped the berries into a measuring scoop, rinsed off the cutting board, and looked over at the redhead.  "Not that it matters to my answer, but did you suggest this or did Marc?"

Rich pulled a stool over.  "He said something about getting cabin fever, so I asked if he wanted to go out.  He suggested hitting a couple of the university hang-outs, though.  You know, one or two of the bars, maybe a pool hall.  What's up?"

Strong, quick fingers began deftly grating the zest off the orange.  "Just keeping an eye on how he's doing.  Comes with the territory, you know."

"Does training immortals come with a guidebook?" Rich asked curiously.

Aidan snorted at the thought.  "What, Dr. Spock or something?  Hah!  Besides, who would write it?  Methos?  Hardly.  Rebecca would have been perfect, and she was a superb teacher, but she never did.  No, Rich, no such book.  Just... obligations.  Reciprocal courtesies.  Experience."

"So why did it matter who asked?"

"Pass the walnuts.  No, the bag from the shelves, please."  Aidan caught them neatly out of the air.  "Thanks.  What have you figured out about Marc's time with Henslowe?"

The smile faded from Rich's face as he came to check her recipe and start assembling the other ingredients for her.  "I figured out that he had as bad a time with that guy as I did with some of the foster homes I was in.  Although I don't think he was raped."

"No," Aidan said quietly, "I don't think so either."

"I think Christopher took his temper out on Marc.  A lot.  He's real wary of other immortals -- Mac and Adam mostly.  He watches where you are, but I don't think you frighten him.  He's just... cautious.  Same with me, and he's getting a lot more relaxed with me than he was.  You want to know if he's coming out of his shell," Rich finally concluded.

"I've been worried about it."

Rich nodded at that, obviously still thinking.  "Yeah, I can see why.  He's doing a lot better, Aidan."

"I know.  You've been a great help, too.  I haven't thanked you for that, Rich.  I'm sorry."  She glanced over at him as she apologized and Rich leaned in and kissed her on the cheek.

"Hey, no need.  Just keep an eye on Mac when I go back on the circuit next month, okay?"

"Deal."  Aidan smiled at him.  "Seriously.  Thank you.  And have a good time tonight."

"I'll look out for him, Aidan.  Promise."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 20

Marc slowed abruptly when he saw Adam.  The older immortal was sitting on the floor next to the spiral stair, up on the third floor.  _Between my room and Aidan's_ , the young man realized uneasily.  Unreadable hazel eyes looked up to study him and Marc immediately wondered if his fly were unzipped or his shirt inside-out.  Instead of saying anything scathing, though, Adam threw him an apple and closed the book he'd been reading.

"Aidan's still asleep."

"She what?  I didn't think she ever slept past eight."  Marc quickly realized he'd lost some ground in whatever discussion was going on.

"Normally she doesn't," came the calm answer.  "But she hasn't been sleeping much lately.  Unless you object, I'll work out with you this morning instead.  Tai chi or run?"

Marc digested that one in silence, taking a bite of the apple to cover his thoughts.  Of all the immortals, Adam was the one who made him the most nervous.  Aidan had been pushing herself hard, though, to spend enough time on his training and still keep her lovers from feeling neglected.  No surprise she had slept late today.  And Marc suspected he either needed to get used to Adam -- or leave.

"Run, please.  Let me go grab a jacket and I'll meet you downstairs."  Before Adam could say it, the Italian added, "And yes, I'll use the stairwell on the far side.  If Aidan's that tired, I don't want to wake her."

Adam tilted his head as he considered the younger man, and Marc wondered absently how many mannerisms Adam had picked up from Aidan and vice versa.  "Right.  I'll get the water bottles.  Five minutes."

Marc was already munching on the apple as he headed upstairs.  Well before the allotted five minutes were up, he was downstairs in comfortable clothes and shoes for running, house keys in his pocket.  Adam was already stretching against the house and Marc shrugged, then went to do the same.

After a few minutes, the older man asked, "Run here or go hit the park?"

"The park," Marc answered simply.  "The folks there are less likely to try to run us over."

Amusement sparked across Adam's face briefly, but he just nodded.  "Right.  Hop in."

They listened to the radio on the way over, an alternative station that both of them liked, but the ride was silent and, for Marc, increasingly tense.  What in the hell did Adam have against him?  Well, other than the sheer amount of time Aidan was devoting to him, time taken away from Adam and Duncan both.  Marc didn't think he'd allowed Adam's relationship with Duncan prejudice him against the other two men.  Maybe he had, or they thought so?

Adam's first question to him was, "How many miles are you up to?"

"Four," Marc answered.  "And we've been timing them at seven and a half minutes."

"Right.  We'll walk the first half-mile, then run, then walk another half-mile to cool off."

With an oblong, one mile track, that made perfect sense, but Marc groaned anyway.  "Do you and Aidan just like to start running on the uphill half?"

Adam shrugged and said, "It's an unwritten Murphy's Law.  Safety is always in the most inconvenient direction from wherever you are when the shit hits the fan."  Marc groaned again, but he had to agree.

Neither of them wasted breath on words when running.  In Marc's case, he didn't have it to spare by the third mile.  Adam ran beside him with a long easy stride that was irritatingly like Aidan's.  Both of them seemed capable of doing this pace all day.  Soon though Marc fell into the relaxed cadence of distance running, letting his body move by itself while thoughts chased and organized themselves without ever really intruding on his conscious mind.

Adam dropped back to a walk and Marc slowed with him, breathing much more easily than he would have three weeks ago.  The older immortal glanced at his watch then nodded.  "Congratulations.  Five miles, not four, and still at 7:30 each."

"Really?"  Marc listened to his body for a moment; he was a bit more tired than usual, but not unduly sore, and it didn't feel like it would have been a problem even if he was still mortal.  "Damn."

"You were going well enough, it seemed a shame to stop," Adam said casually. 

After cooling down for a quarter mile, Marc got tired of the silence and decided to break it.  "One question, Adam."  When the other man glanced at him, the younger immortal asked in the same even tone, "Do you dislike me personally, or is it just that I'm taking up Aidan's time?"

One eyebrow went up then Adam caught his arm just above the elbow and steered Marc toward the center of the park, away from the other runners and walkers on the track.  Not until they were well away from the others did Adam say, "Neither.  Try again."

Marc stopped and glared at him.  "But you do dislike me.  Why?"

"I have nothing against you myself.  But I don't like bombs either."  He kept walking, leaving Marc the choice to stand still and be furious or catch up.  The Italian ran a few strides to settle back into pace with him.

"Bombs, huh?  You don't say things casually, so what do you think I'm going to blow up?  Your relationship with Aidan?"  Marc's voice was harsh from controlling his emotions to get to the truth -- as much of it as Adam would let him see anyway.

"Marcus Aquilla Scipio, you could no more dent my relationship with Edana than you could empty the sea with a spoon," Adam responded coldly.  "But you are still a mine waiting to go off and hurt Duncan and Aidan both.  So, no, I don't like that."

"What in the hell do you think I'm going to do?  'Cause if you think I can hurt them, you think a hell of a lot more highly of my fighting skills than I do!"

The hard hand that jerked him around caught Marc completely by surprise.  Trivial details burned themselves into his brain:  the narrowed eyes gone dark green now, cold and flat as dark marble; the pale remorseless face.  Adam said, "It's not your ability I doubt.  Edana can train that into you.  But you haven't decided yet that the Game is real, and it's going to get you killed."

Marc glared at him and said, "It already got me killed once, Adam.  That's how I got into this mess."

"No, Marc, you were born into the Game.  There is no way out except to lose your head.  What would you do if an immortal challenged you here and now?"

"Fight and die."

"And that is why you will lose," Adam said grimly.  "Why do you think you'll die?"

"Because I'm not good enough yet," Marc snapped.  "I've only been doing this for two years, damn it.  Hell, Aidan's taught me more in three weeks than Christopher did in three months and she hasn't let me touch a sword yet!"

"Then if you aren't ready, why fight?" Adam asked implacably.

"Because if they challenge, we fight!"  The younger man was squarely in Adam's face, hands clenched into fists at his side, furious and ready to throw the first blow now.

"What idiot told you that?  It wasn't Edana," came the contemptuous reply.

"What?"  Marc's eyes widened and he deflated.  "You mean we don't have to fight?"

"Not always, no," Adam said grimly.  "It's not inevitable; almost nothing is.  Start walking again, you'll stiffen up.  Move."  With one hand he started them into motion before their argument could draw too much attention.

"We don't have to fight?" the young immortal stammered again.

"That depends," Adam stated coldly.  "Why are you fighting?  What's at stake?  What are those stakes worth to you?  It's always a matter of degree."

"You make no sense," Marc growled.

"You do have a temper.  I had started to doubt Aidan about that.  And I make perfect sense, you just aren't listening.  What would make it worth your while to fight Duncan?"

Marc switched over to Italian as some of his temper escaped his control.  "Are you insane?  Fight Duncan?  Who told you I was suicidal?  Even if I won, you'd come for my head, and Aidan right behind you, and Rich behind her!  Why in hell would I do that?"

"That is what I'm asking," the older immortal replied, also in Italian.  "What would make you fight Duncan?"

"Nothing, damn it!"

"Not even Rich?"  Those knowing green eyes regarded him speculatively.  "If your choice were to fight Duncan and watch Rich walk free, whether or not you won, or to see him lose his head, what would you do?"

The blood drained out of Marc's face as his too-vivid imagination let him see the scene.  A second later he said quietly, "I might fight.  I don't know.  Probably."

"And you'd be terrified and dead, but Rich would live.  Fine.  There are things you're willing to die for.  What are you willing to kill for?"

"Damn it, I don't know!"

"Then you're a walking corpse, and I'm wasting my breath," came the cold reply.  Adam lengthened his pace and pulled away from Marc, heading back toward the car.

Marc called after him, "My family is worth it."

"You had to think about it," Adam said as he turned around.  "Your head's already on the ground, boy.  But it's a start.  What else will you protect?"

"My friends," Marc said promptly.  "Joe, Rich, Aidan.  Duncan."

Adam looked amused for a moment.  "You're honest enough not to put me on there, at least."

"Oh, I might fight for you," Marc answered him angrily.  "But I'd be doing it because Aidan and Duncan want you alive, not because you're a friend of mine."

"And now we begin to get somewhere," Adam said.  "So what do I hold against you?"

That stopped Marc's mouth and legs both.  Comprehension poured through him in an exhilarating flood and he said softly, "You think I'm going to get killed and that's what will hurt Aidan."

"Well, that took long enough.  What are you going to do about it?"

"I'm going to try not to fight," he answered promptly.  "Not show up if they challenge, try to pick my own ground if I can't hide.  Fight as dirty as possible if I do have to fight."

"Maybe you will live," Adam said.  "Always remember:  the benefits if you win have to outweigh the costs if you lose, Marc.  And don't assume you'll be the one paying.  Although I've known immortals where you would."

That calm, controlled voice told Marc things on a subconscious level which he hadn't wanted to know, a warning of pain and grief and terror that needed no specifics and was more visceral for the lack of them.  Instead Marc tried to answer the costs to those around him.  "I'll try not to hurt her, Adam.  I'll try my damnedest."

Adam took Marc's measure for a long time, those remorseless eyes boring into his soul and laying every bit of the younger immortal bare... or so it felt to Marc.  When he turned away, the young man nearly fell.  "Now I believe you.  Have you decided yet that the Game is real?"

Marc just nodded, still shaken by the whole discussion.

"Then I'm glad Edana overslept.  But, Marc," Adam added conversationally, "you left yourself off the list of people you'll kill for.  Think about that." 

"Oh.  Do I need to tell Aidan about this talk?"  Marc's voice quavered a little, but he was quiet and mostly in control again.

"Your business.  I won't.  Feel free if you need to."

Marc thought about that for much of the way back to Aidan's house and Adam didn't interrupt him.  Before they went inside, the younger immortal said, "There's no real point in talking to Aidan about this.  You told me what I need to know, and just because I don't like you much right now is no reason to bother her."

"You're too controlled, Marc," Adam said calmly.  "That's a good thing for this, but it will kill you in a fight.  Learn when and how to unlock that control and you may go far."

"You're the most controlled person I've ever met!  And you're telling me to lighten up?"

"There will be times when calculating the cost of something will lose you the fight, and maybe your head.  Do your thinking ahead of time.  Know both what you want and what you are willing to pay to get it or keep it.  That way you won't have to think about whether to fight or run.  You'll just do it."

Marc slouched further into the seat, trying to see through Adam's perspective and realizing that he couldn't yet.  "How do you live with yourself if you run?" he finally asked.

"At least you're still alive to worry about it," came the cold reply.  "If you want to talk about honor, go see Mac.  I think they used chivalry instead of bones when they assembled him.  If you want to talk about survival, find me.  Edana does one of the better jobs of balancing between the two that I've seen.  You got very lucky on a new teacher.  Take advantage of that."

Marc caught him by the arm, carefully keeping the touch light so that it wouldn't bring the other man around swinging.  "No.  I think I got lucky on my new teachers," he answered, emphasizing the plural.  "I won't say I liked the lessons today, but... thanks.  I appreciate it."

"No, you're Edana's student," but Adam sounded a bit more human now.  "I just get to corrupt you while she's trying to train you."

Marc chuckled at that and said, "What?  You're the guy in the red suit and the tail?  I can't see Duncan in white robes and a halo."

"A Boy Scout uniform maybe."

"Why do you tease him about that, anyway?"

"Because he does the entire 'loyal, helpful, courteous, kind, clean, reverent,' blah, blah, blah."

Marc rolled his eyes.  "Well, Aidan and Joe are the ones who go in for 'Be prepared.'  Have you seen that duffel bag of hers?  I had to unpack it the other night.  She wanted me to figure out why she keeps some of it on hand.  God!"

The smell of baking met them as they walked out of the stairwell:  cinnamon, and blueberry, and the scent of fresh bread.  Aidan smiled when she saw them, and Marc blushed.  His teacher was in the huge bath which sat next to the elevator, and the only things hiding that slender body from view were the distance and some bubbles.  Most of her hair was piled high on her head, but a few tendrils had escaped and were curled with the heat and wisping around her face.

Adam chuckled when he saw her soften her posture and sprawl back into the water.  "Enjoying your vacation?"

"Is that what happened?" Aidan asked, her voice so relaxed she sounded half-asleep.

"Something like.  Did you get breakfast?"  He walked over to the tub and leaned in to kiss her.  "Mmm.  Coffee and cinnamon toast."

"No, cinnamon coffee.  And something was cooling on the baking rack, but I haven't checked yet to see what it is.  Put some more bubble bath and hot water in?"  Aidan looked over at Marc.  "Good run?  Or did you work on the tai chi?"

"We went running.  Did five miles."  Marc very carefully didn't stare at her as he answered.

Adam added casually, "He's going to run as well as you and I do.  Not in Mandisa's league, mind, but few of us are."  After he'd started the tub running again for her, the older man said, "Turn off the hot water yourself.  Want some breakfast?"

"Please.  And more coffee.  I think I'm going to be lazy for a little while yet, since you two have already run.  Marc, we'll work on aikido this afternoon, then you have tomorrow largely free.  I do want you to start reading Art of War, though.  I'll accept any of the translations downstairs."

"Hey, great!  Rich says one more afternoon practicing on the Harley and I should be ready for to go for my license.  And no problem on the reading, Aidan, I saw two copies yesterday."

Aidan moved to turn off the hot water, dislodging the bubbles.  Seeing Marc look away, she said thoughtfully, "Why don't you go get a shower and come back down to soak?"

"Are you serious?"  Amber eyes widened in surprise and he blushed so furiously Aidan could see it even on that gold-brown skin.

"Yes, but I don't pay much attention to body modesty."

"Any," Adam cut in, bringing back her coffee cup and a plate of blueberry nut bread.  "You don't pay any attention to it, just to laws that will get you stoned or burned for ignoring them.  Did you leave me any hot water for a shower?"

"Of course."  Aidan took the coffee absently, contemplating her student's expression and waiting for his answer.

"Umm....  Another time?  I thought I'd hit the 'Net this morning, try and find some of the Latin software and references we were discussing yesterday."

Adam raised an eyebrow at that answer but went to get a shower, saying, "Don't eat all of breakfast, Aidan; half of that's for me."

The Irish immortal moved to prop her elbows on the side of the tub near Marc, which concealed her well enough from his gaze.  "So what's really going on in that head of yours?"

"That you might like some time to yourself with Adam," Marc said bluntly.  "I mean, I appreciate all the time you've been spending on me, and I needed it, but you need your life back, too.  You three haven't been an item all that long, have you?"

"No.  About four months, all told.  But we're all patient, Marc.  If you need the time, then you do.  It's not a problem, and all three of us have had students before.  We're used to the demands it puts on our time.  If you really want to go work on the 'Net, then do so by all means.  If you're not comfortable sharing a tub with me, whether because I'm female but not your lover, or because I'm your teacher, that's fine, too."

"I think all of the above," he admitted. "I mean, I'm not sure I'd be comfortable sharing a tub with Rich, Aidan.  Sharing one with you and Adam, knowing you could both be doing something else and enjoying it more," and he grinned at that, "well, I'd just rather not.  It's not that I think you'd jump my bones, but I'd have trouble thinking of you as my teacher after that, if you get what I mean."

"You'd have trouble watching my sword instead of remembering what my tits look like," she replied bluntly.  "Right, we'll work on that another time.  Go get your shower and have a good time on the 'Net."

"Well, I'm going to take some breakfast with me.  It should take at least a few hours for me to find everything I'm looking for," he said cheerfully.  "Have a nice lazy morning, Teach."

When Methos walked over from the shower, he looked around the empty living quarters and said, "I see Marc won that round."

"He's a matchmaker," Aidan answered.  "Thinks I need more time with you.  I won't object."

"Neither will I."  He slid into the tub and sighed as the heat immediately began to work on him.  "Gods, that's wonderful.  So, sleep well?"

"Entirely too long, love, but well.  What happened?"

There was nothing to be read on Methos' face except contentment.  Eyes closed, head half-surrounded by the ferns Aidan kept around the tub, he basked in the heat like a lizard, although the rising flush from the hot water made Aidan think obscene things about jewel-toned lizard and baboons.  Her teacher had no idea why she was chuckling, but the tone convinced him to reach under the water and pinch her, hard.

"Magister!"

"What?"

"Quit that.  You're just trying to distract me."  She twisted under the water to get away and continued, "And don't try moving higher either; I know you.  Talk to me, please.  What happened this morning?  I shouldn't have slept that long, and certainly not through the alarm."

Methos reached and pulled, taking advantage of the water's buoyancy to relocate her.  Once he had Aidan curled into his lap, his arms around her, he mentioned, "Well, the alarm didn't go off.  MacLeod woke up."

"And?"

"Edana, you slept through the two of us making love a foot away from you.  We weren't about to wake you after that.  So he went to deal with classes at the university and the dojo, and I took Marc running after I made breakfast."

Aidan sighed and rested her head against him, shivering when he blew a curl of hair out of the way of his nose.  "I know.  I found the note that you were taking him this morning.  _Muirnin_ , I've been trying not to involve you in all of this."

"The one thing I hate," Methos said in a conversational voice, "is how careful you and Duncan have to be with my name.  Joe usually calls me Adam in public; he never thinks about it.  But I miss hearing you say it."

The lithe body twisting against him, silky from water and bath soap, was incredibly arousing.  The soft, cherishing voice whispering his name was more so.  "Methos.  _Muirnin.  Amator._   Beloved."  A kiss or nibble punctuated each word, and Methos arched against her, baring his throat to her mouth.  Aidan nipped delicately at his jaw where it met his throat, and murmured, "Methos," again just to hear him purr.

"Gods, I'll remember to tell you that more often," he gasped, his arms tightening around her waist.

A soft laugh against his throat made him shiver.  "You and Dhonnchaidh.  What is it about your names?"

"Your voices," Methos answered seriously.  "That much feeling wrapped into a word...."

"Mmm.  I am sorry you had to take Marc.  Did it go all right?"

"For me or him?" was the answer.  "My choice, Edana.  And it went fine."  His hands teased up along her ribs, settling just under her breasts.

Long fingers teased around her nipples, not touching yet, and the immortal woman shivered, holding herself still.  "Methos.  You're dodging the subject."

"Edana, from what I've seen, if Marc needs to talk to you about something, he will.  I don't need to talk to you, but I did have other things in mind, since you've finally gotten some sleep."  Hot breath teased the edge of her ear as he moved to lick a bead of sweat from her neck.

"Mmm, I suppose I can live with--"

He sat upright abruptly.  "Someone's here, not Mac."

Aidan snarled, using one hand on the edge of the tub to vault out.  Her saber seemed to leap into a wet hand as the immortal woman headed for the stairs to the first floor, completely unconcerned with the fact that she wore nothing but bath water and bubbles.  To his disgust, Methos found himself grabbing jeans to follow her.  _The Boy Scout must rubbing off on both of us._

Marc had just finished bookmarking another promising site when he felt an immortal outside.  The elevator hadn't rattled downstairs, and no one had come out of the stairwell, so it wasn't Adam or Aidan.  Which meant....  Heart pounding, the young immortal forced calm over himself and pulled his katana out of his coat just as the door opened and his jaw dropped.

The visitor was absolutely gorgeous, whoever she was.  Short-cropped auburn hair accented wide, dark brown eyes; she turned to look at him, and the happy smile dropped off her face.  "Who are you and what are you doing here?" she demanded.

Marc watched her tuck some slender wires back into the arm of her coat and frowned as he brought his sword up into a defensive position.  " **I** live here.   You, on the other hand, just picked the lock.  So let's start with who you are."  His voice stayed completely level from long practice.  Two years with Christopher had taught him some useful things, although not entirely what the older immortal had intended.

"Where's Aidan?"  The strange woman was looking him up and down with an expression that clearly indicated she had not expected to find him there, and still hadn't decided whether or not he matched the decor.

As if on cue, the stairwell door slammed open.  Marc heard the footsteps behind him, but he wasn't about to take his eyes off this unknown, gorgeous woman.  From the sounds, Aidan had stopped cold.  At her first words Marc relaxed immediately.

"Amanda, your timing is abysmal, as usual!"

"At least it's only hot water this time, dear.  Well, and bubbles.  It could have been worse."  Amanda tilted her head, bright pink lips pursed as she tried to look sympathetic.

Methos glared at her from the stairwell door, broadsword in hand and jeans plastered to his wet legs, still dripping.  "It was.  I know you own a cell phone, Amanda, why don't you ever use it?"

"Because I live to see you naked, of course," she replied blithely.  "I simply haven't managed it yet.  Umm, Aidan, dear, shall we take this upstairs?  You're going to catch a chill like that."

Aidan sighed, loudly enough that Marc heard her across the room, and said, "Marc Scipio, this is Amanda Darrieux, a good friend of mine most days.  Amanda, this is my new student, Marc."

The short-haired woman promptly began giving Marc a once-over, taking in every detail of his tall, long-limbed height from the loosely curling black hair and the wide, slightly slanted amber eyes, to the gold-brown skin and wide shoulders running down to a slender waist and long legs.  "Oh, my, Aidan, where did you find him?"

An odd expression crossed Marc's face too quickly for Amanda to read the emotion behind it, although she could guess why he was blushing.  Aidan gave a choked sound that seemed to be laughter.  "Oh, around."

Methos raised an eyebrow, then shook his head.  "Don't ask me, Amanda.  Aidan, there's hot water with our name on it."

"Oh, good," Amanda said blithely.  "Go finish your bath and I'll come up and chat."

"You'll come up and help dry the water off my floors," Aidan told her in an uncompromising tone.  "If you'd ever call ahead, I wouldn't have made a mess all over the place.  Come along, woman."  The Irish immortal switched over to Russian and said, "By the way, Amanda.  The boy has been badly trained and mistreated by his first teacher.  Don't hurt him, dear.  He's still a bit fragile."

Amanda blinked at that and reappraised Marc.  Also in Russian, she answered thoughtfully, "Well of course I won't hurt him, but are we talking emotionally or physically?  I mean, he is one of us, how badly--"  She cut off her words at the sardonic look Methos was giving her.

"Mostly emotional," Aidan replied, "but I'm having to put weight and conditioning on him, too.  Bear in mind, this is what he looks like after he's put on ten pounds.  He was much worse when he got here.  I mean it, Amanda.  I will take it very personally if you set his training back."

"Well, of course not," Amanda replied in English.  "I most certainly did not do anything to get caught at it, and there's no reason Marc can't hear.  Have a little faith, Aidan."

The Irish woman heard the answer in that and smiled.  "Fair enough, Manda.  I am glad you're here, but I'm going to go finish my bath.  Come on, Adam, let's see if we soaked the blueberry bread or not."

Marc asked thoughtfully, "Do I want to look around?"

Before Aidan could say anything, Amanda commented, "Well, it is a nice view, but maybe not."

"Marc, nice work on having the sword with you.  I've had students who didn't learn that nearly so quickly as you have.  But for your own sake, why don't you wait until the door closes behind me to look?"  Aidan was almost laughing again.  "Amanda, get your cute little rump upstairs and help us clean up.  Gods.  My one free morning this month and I'm going to have to do floors!"

After the stairwell door had closed behind all three of them, Marc sighed and put his sword back by the desk.  Some days, living with Aidan felt like being in the middle of a Kurosawa movie; others, it was something by Mel Brooks.  A gorgeous thief -- _Cat burglar?  What would Amanda look like in Catwoman's outfit?_   Marc hastily pushed that thought away -- had just patted him on the ass on her way upstairs... and ignored every bit of portable, high-value art on Aidan's shelves.

It was definitely time to go back to the Internet.  Life here was just getting too damn weird.

Once the floor was dry, Aidan refilled cold coffees while Methos cut more blueberry bread.  Amanda pulled a papa-san over to talk while they soaked, saying she didn't want to have to redo her makeup, although somehow, Methos had managed to get back in the tub without letting her  get a good view, damn it!  How in the world did he do a fan dance with a fern?

Amanda even let Aidan settle into the tub and get down three bites of the bread before she asked, "So, who is he?  He's adorable, Aidan."

Methos closed his eyes and lounged into the heat.  "Robbing the cradle again, Amanda?"

"My latest student."

When Aidan seemed inclined to leave it at that, and having ignored Methos with as much dignity as she could manage, Amanda said thoughtfully, "You know, some cold water might improve that bath."

"We could spar this afternoon, too," the Irish immortal replied in an equally absorbed tone.

"Well, what's the big secret?" Amanda asked indignantly.  "Is he in trouble or something?"

"His first teacher killed him to bring him into the Game, which may have been the least of some of the abuses there, and I'm still straightening Marc's thought processes back out.  Plus his training is abysmal, so I've been working him half to death.  There's no great secret, but it's his business, Amanda.  I would prefer you didn't ask him for details just yet."

"Well, of course not."  Amanda gave them an indignant look.  "Straightening his head out, hmm?  Shall we work on his ego, then?"

"Oh, this should be good," Methos commented.

"Well, I thought we could all go dancing.  I'm sure Rich can find a couple of co-eds to go along."

"Hmm.  Rich says Marc likes dancing," Aidan mused.  "And there're a couple of clubs that would be fun to hit.  We could talk Duncan into it."

"What about me?" Methos asked lazily.  "How are you going to talk me into it?"

She leaned against his chest and whispered something.  Methos smiled slightly and said, "You're right.  Let's go dancing tonight."

"And I know just the place," Amanda chirped.  "You'll see."

~~~~~

Pounding noise assaulted Duncan's ears, then abruptly became recognizable as music when he moved through the door.  The wry smile on Aidan's face comforted him more than Methos' half-heard, caustic comment about some of the trends in modern music.

"What did you say, Adam?"

Amanda interrupted, "Pick on him later.  Dance first."  She grabbed Duncan by one hand and pulled him onto the dance floor before he could protest.  Aidan curtsied deeply to Methos, which showed off an inordinate amount of long leg under the short skirt and looked for a second as if she would drag her hair on the ground.  He bowed back, smiling at the silly gesture, and held out a hand to her and they went to cause trouble on the dance floor themselves.

Rich just grinned at his date, Cara, and said, "I warned you about them."

She giggled and answered, "Yeah, you did.  Come on, let's dance."

Cara's roommate, Nicole, went with Marc, happily chattering about school, music, and classes.  The youngest immortal in the room decided Rich hadn't been joking that it had been no problem getting Nicole to double-date.  She was definitely, and flatteringly, interested, which had him in a very good mood.  Watching the other immortals made the evening even more entertaining.

Cara and Nicole threw giggling comments back and forth as Amanda and Aidan kept trading dance partners, even occasionally stealing Rich or Marc.  Since that left the two co-eds dancing with Mr. MacLeod or Dr. Pierson, they weren't complaining.  Some of the other college students there recognized the Art History professor and his friend who substituted in the Foreign Language and History departments, which seemed to be a passable excuse to come by to say hello.

As it got later in the evening and the make-up of the crowd changed, the two girls laughed even more.  The crowd was predominantly straight, but there were some gay and lesbian couples as well, more than a few interracial pairings, and some that took close investigation to be sure who was what.  Aidan danced by Adam, as he had insisted on being called out of class, and quoted a line from a Whoopi Goldberg movie, saying, "Look, a tropical goldfish -- and his mate."

He cracked up, and cut in on Mac to dance with her and people-watch.  Amanda never missed a beat, but called gleefully, "Aidan, about ready?"

"Oh, certainly."

The mischievous look on his one-time student's face made Methos regard her speculatively.  "What are you up to?"

"Oh, changing dance partners."  With that, Aidan turned neatly away from Methos and spun Duncan to face his male lover, which left her dancing with Amanda.  Their gleeful argument over who was going to lead had Cara laughing too hard to dance, or maybe it was the startled look on Mr. MacLeod's face. 

Methos chuckled and led, since his partner didn't seem able to do it himself.  "Those two."

Duncan shook his head and grinned, watching the two women as his body neatly adjusted itself to his lover's movements.  "That little minx." 

"Who, Aidan?"

"No," Duncan answered, voice strained with contained laughter or annoyance.  "Amanda.  She's trying to seduce Aidan, and us along with her, I think.  You're missing an incredible show."

Methos turned them so they could both see.  Amanda was dancing half an inch from Aidan's body, generating enough heat to warm the entire dance floor; no matter what Aidan did, Amanda matched it.  Both women were in superb shape, both loved to dance, and they had apparently decided they didn't care how much of a show they gave the place.

Amanda purred and shimmied, then gasped and laughed as Aidan deliberately trailed long hair across exposed cleavage.  The Irish woman shivered when Amanda leaned in to whisper something to her and instead blew cool air across heated skin.  "That's cheating, Manda!"

"Well, of course it is."

Rich had more than half of his attention on the scene unfolding next to them and Cara snickered when she made her third comment with no answer.  Nicole caught her roommate's eyes, mischief on her face, and Cara started shaking her head in laughing denial.  "Oh, no.  No, no, no."

Quoting their favorite movie of the month, _Blazing Saddles_ , Nicole said gleefully, "Uh-uh, baby, I have to."  She cut in on Rich and spun Cara away from him.

Marc whooped with laughter, then held out one hand grandly.  "Shall we?  Can't let the old fogies outdo us, you know."

Blue eyes gleaming, Rich replied, "Of course not.  You're leading."

Marc couldn't resist the opportunity.  Murmuring 'One, two, three, one, two, three,' he waltzed Rich in-between the other immortal couples and had the satisfaction of watching all four of them stare in surprise.  Amanda even missed her step.

Rich meanwhile gazed longingly into his eyes, saying something about "My dear, you dance divinely."

Cara and Nicole were giggling almost hysterically, swaying in place more than dancing.  Adam scored a point on an invisible scoreboard, calling "Congratulations, Ryan, I didn't think you knew how to waltz."

Mac grinned at Methos and said, "Shall we show the amateurs how it's done?"  Without waiting for a reply, the Highlander led them into a waltz of a type that would have had the matriarchs at a debutante ball outraged.  There was never more than two inches between their bodies, and the graceful, swaying movements matched so perfectly it looked more like sex than some porno flicks.  Zalman King would have paid good money to film them for a Red Shoe Diaries episode.

Aidan smiled wickedly at Amanda.  "Well, if no one else is going to pay attention to the music, why should we?  You do remember how to tango, don't you?"

"Just don't drop me," Amanda purred as Aidan pulled her in and then spun her out and away.  Deliberately, they over-dramatized the tango, throwing sultry looks and challenging stares as they twisted and stepped, leaned or spun.  Aidan dipped Amanda farther back than Mac might have dared, taking advantage of her own lower center of gravity, and the short-haired immortal ran with it.  When Aidan pulled her back up, Amanda wrapped around her for an instant in a clinch that ought to have been illegal and looked like ivy attaching itself to a tree, or one of the poses out of the _Kama Sutra_.

When they broke apart, several drag queens were in the circle around them, clapping and hooting.  One or two were ostentatiously fanning themselves, calling, "Oh, honey, my shots are working.  Is this what a hot flash feels like?"

Aidan chuckled at that and answered, "I wouldn't know.  Thank you, though."  Warm arms wrapped around her waist from behind and teeth nipped her ear.

Duncan whispered, "Isn't anticipation wonderful?  And aren't you glad Marc's on the fourth floor?"

Amanda rubbed up against Methos from behind, running her hands down the buttons on his shirt and pressing against his ass.  "Did you and Duncan enjoy the show?"

"Where did you get the idea I'd gone blind, Amanda?"  He pulled her around in front of him and wrapped his arms around her waist.  He deliberately rubbed against her just hard enough to let her feel the erection their dance had evoked.  "What do you think?"

"That you're carrying a nightstick -- or glad to see me," she answered.  "So what are you three doing later tonight?"  Green-gold eyes met dark brown and his sarcastic smile cut off any more comments the immortal thief might have made.

"Not this year, Amanda."  He leaned in and whispered into her ear, "Let's not strain the Boy Scout's flexibility any more anytime soon, hmm?"

"But he's very flexible," Amanda pouted winsomely.

Methos let his smile fade, silently warning her not to push the issue.  "No, Amanda.  And don't whine."

Rich and Marc grinned at each other when their dates came up and demanded, "Why didn't you tell us you can waltz?"  Cara went on indignantly, "Most guys slow dance like they've been super glued to the floor!  What else have you two been holding out on us?"

Rich looked at this new friend, glanced over at the older immortals, and his grin got even wider.  "We've got the bikes.  Let's blow this place and go find some place a bit more quiet."

Marc said slowly, "Hey, Rich?  We've both got coffee."

All four of them looked at each other in sudden, complete accord.  Rich cheerfully called, "Bye, folks!"  At the sudden sharp attention from Aidan, both of the young immortals nodded to her and she relaxed imperceptibly.

Grey eyes caught Marc and Aidan said in Italian, "Set the alarms.  I may stay with Duncan tonight."

"That'd be--"  He just barely stopped himself from admitting he wanted his teacher to sleep somewhere other than her own house, but her amused look told him she didn't mind. 

"Have a good night, Marc."

Aidan waited until they had gone to smile at Mac and Methos.  "Ah, to be that young again."  She studied the way Amanda was wrapped around Methos' waist and shook her head.  "Shall we get some beers and then try to shock this place some more?"

"I doubt we can shock them," Duncan replied, "but why not?  Everyone needs a goal in life."

"Mine, MacLeod, is beer.  Come on."  Methos dragged him towards the bar.

Amanda snuggled into Aidan as they walked, all hot, sleek skin, and silk and leather.  "Aidan, dear, do you remember we discussed sharing--"

Aidan smiled at her friend  and said pleasantly, "I never said a word about sharing Adam, dear."

"Well, I was thinking all three of you, but I suppose I'm not welcome."  Amanda sighed wistfully, not quite sulking.  "Oh, well, another cold shower and cold bed for me.  The convent would be so proud."

Duncan caught the last sentence as he handed them both cold drinks.  "Oh, you mean the one where you stole the _Book of Hours_?"

Methos said thoughtfully, "You don't still have it, do you?"

The mood and her hopes, temporarily shattered, Amanda replied absently, "Of course not.  I sold it to you months ago."

"I thought you said that wasn't stolen," he reminded her, his eyes narrowing.

"It was centuries ago.  Possession is nine-tenths of the law, and besides, the statute of limitations had run out.  Honestly, old man, picky, picky, picky."

Aidan chuckled at that, and switched to Gaelic for a moment.  "Does she speak this, Dhonnchaidh?"

"Not a chance," he answered, amused.  "Why?"

"Are we interested in a foursome?  She's asked me and him both, beloved."

Methos stuck his nose into the discussion.  "Is there room in your bed, love?"

"Well, I was thinking Duncan's bed.  But I didn't say I wanted to, I asked if he did," Aidan answered reasonably.

"Whoa, whoa, this is a partnership," Duncan immediately demurred.  "I know better than to think I'm in charge.  Are you two interested or not?"  He ignored Methos' snort of amusement.

"Not right now," Aidan told them.  "My life's complicated enough at the moment, between you two, Lucius, and a student." _Not to mention a couple other minor details, such as what I'm to do about Connor...._   "However, if you two are interested, I wouldn't mind watching."

"Voyeur," Methos replied.  "Wouldn't mind indeed.  You'd enjoy it and I know it."

"I'm not an idiot," came the offended reply.

"No, you're not.  However, let's at least wait until our one-year anniversary, hmm?"

Aidan grinned at them and said, "Shall I wrap her up as a gift for you two then?  It would solve what to get you."

Duncan swatted her on the ass, switching back to English before they were any more rude to Amanda.  "Behave, Edana.  Wench."

Amanda, who'd had a good idea what they were discussing, sighed and said, "I take it the answer is no."

"The answer," Duncan replied gently, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, "is 'later.'  We aren't quite ready yet, Amanda.  Give us some time."

"Well, of course.  Just keep me in mind."  That quickly she switched her mind to other prospects.  "Hmm, you know, there is just something about a musician's hands.  I wonder if Joe's been serious about all that flirting?"

Duncan sputtered, surprised despite all his experience with the thief.  "Amanda!"

"Oh, I won't break him, Duncan, have some faith!  I was just thinking about kicking the tires, maybe a test drive or two...."

"He's a Watcher, Amanda," Methos reminded her.  "This is not a good idea."

"Jealous, Methos?"

'No, trying to keep Joe from being shot again," came the cold reply.  "Think about it, hmm?  By all means, make him happy.  But make sure no one sees it who might have to report it."

Amanda smiled at him and said, "Certainly.  You see the brown-haired man over there nursing the Tom Collins?  I'm going to saunter past him and you're going to cold-cock him for me.  Thanks, 'Adam,' " and she emphasized his name deliberately, "I really appreciate it."

Aidan smiled and said, "I'll handle the Watcher, Amanda.  Go on."

Duncan groaned but stayed out of the conversation.  He knew perfectly well that Aidan held a grudge against Watchers, but she wouldn't do anything too drastic.  He hoped.

As the women sauntered toward the bar and Amanda's Watcher, the thief murmured in Russian, "Now, don't hurt him.  He's actually kind of sweet.  He helped me pick up my bags the other day."

Aidan grinned and said, "Have a nice night, dear."  The long-haired woman 'tripped' and fell into the small booth, trapping the Watcher against the wall as Amanda kept going.  "Oh, I'm so sorry.  Damn, I think I twisted my ankle."  She pulled her foot into her lap, an interesting contortion in a short skirt, and looked down at the offending joint. 

The Watcher swallowed hastily, trying to drag his gaze somewhere other than her exposed crotch and hastily scooped ice out of his drink into the paper napkin.  "Here you go.  Umm, I kind of need to get out of the booth, I'm afraid."

Aidan tried to move, fell back onto his lap as soon as she managed to stand, and pushed him back into the booth once more.  "Oh, Gods, this doesn't seem to be working.  Give me a second, I'm so sorry."

Methos watched in open amusement.  The boy had never stood a chance, and he still didn't know it.

The young Watcher, meanwhile, had offered to help Aidan up, thinking he could support her long enough to get out of the booth and go after his assignment.  It didn't quite work out as he'd planned.  Instead, she slid back against him and somehow every square inch of that slender, feminine body rubbed against him.  At least, it certainly felt like it, and his face heated up remembering what the woman had looked like dancing with Amanda.  He could imagine everything he couldn't see under the table, and standing up was going to be very embarrassing.

The second attempt to help the young woman up was even worse.  She slipped, fell with a cry, and landed on his lap this time.  One hand groped him while she was trying to get her balance, and then she ended up with her breasts pressed against his chest and her face a few short inches from his, murmuring something breathy about, "Oh, I'm such a klutz, I'm so sorry, can I buy you a drink to apologize?"

Duncan was watching in mingled shock, amusement, and horror -- mostly horror.  He knew Aidan was skilled in unarmed combat, but he'd never seen her use her body as quite this type of weapon before.  Without looking at Methos he muttered, "I thought she hated being a tease."

"Well, MacLeod, he is a professional Peeping Tom," came the dry reply.  "Maybe she thinks it's only fair."

"Umm, miss, I really have to go," the young Watcher stammered.

Aidan gave him a sultry smile calculated to melt the remaining ice in his Tom Collins and squirmed against his body so that his hand fell onto her ass.  "Oh, please, call me Aidan.  I'm Aidan Logan."

One hand had reflexively settled onto her hip to steady her, and the other had tightened briefly on her ass.  Then her name registered and clicked into place with his knowledge of Amanda.  Amanda Darrieux had a history with Duncan MacLeod, who lived in Seacouver and was currently sleeping with a mortal named Adam Pierson (and wasn't there some scandal in that?  Other than the fact that they were both guys?) and a possible immortal named... Aidan Logan.  The Watcher saw doom fall out of the sky and land squarely on his head -- or in this case, his lap.

Aidan saw the shocked recognition as he finally placed her name and smiled at him again, this time a purely predatory baring of teeth.  "I'm afraid Amanda's long gone.  Why don't you buy yourself a drink, find a nice-looking date, and enjoy the evening?  Seacouver's a very nice town for tourists."

He moved his hands carefully to the table and said, "I'd really rather you didn't kill me."

Now it was her turn to stare.  "Kill you?  Kitling, if I'd wanted you dead, you wouldn't have known I was here.  You'd have simply never stood up.  Don't be ridiculous."

"Oh.  She just wants some privacy for the night?"

"Basically?  Yes."

He nodded, careful not to stare down the exposed cleavage.  "Well, it's the nicest distraction I can imagine.  Can I look for her tomorrow, or are you going to sprain your ankle again in the hotel lobby?"

Aidan tried not to laugh at the hopeful, wistful voice and said cheerfully, "Oh, I don't think so.  Good night, Watcher."  She pulled a five out of her pocket and dropped it on the table.  "I did promise you a drink, after all."  Swaying her hips as she walked, Aidan headed back to pick up her dates.

"That was not nice," Duncan pointed out, although the scolding was ruined by his helpless chuckles.

Aidan smiled at him and said, "Why do I remember a story Joe told me about 'Say pretty please?'  Something about a window?"

Now Methos looked interested.  "I didn't hear that one, Duncan."

Duncan swiftly changed the subject to something almost as diverting.  "What do you think Amanda will do when Joe tells her he's already taken?"

Methos smiled wickedly.  "We can always go by later and ask."

"She'll be sitting there asking him outrageous questions about Erin and demanding pictures," Aidan pointed out.  "And wanting to know why we didn't tell her in advance."

"You're right," Duncan answered.  "Let's go someplace she'll never find us.  Barnes & Noble?"

"We're dressed to go clubbing and you want us to go to a bookstore?" she asked incredulously.

"Why not?"  Methos smiled.  "Come on, it's not like Amanda will look for us there."

"Because we'll never get you back out," Aidan retorted, but she wrapped an arm around his waist as she conceded the decision.  "Dhonnchaidh, steal his wallet first.  But why not, they have coffee there.  Let's go, before Manda's Watcher decides to follow me for lack of anything better to do tonight."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Night 23

Still laughing from their shower, Aidan and Duncan pushed Methos into the center of the bed.  "Move, you, it's cold," Aidan said.

"Gripe, gripe, gripe.  Shall we put you in the middle then?" he asked.

"No, you'll steal the covers and then he and I will freeze," she pointed out.

Duncan solved the argument by climbing in the middle.  "Come get warm, both of you.  I'll trade places with you after a while, Methos."  He hissed when Aidan's wet braid caught his side.  "How does your hair get that cold between the shower and the bed?"

She shrugged.  "It's a long walk and it's February?  I don't know, Duncan.  Maybe I should have put the bed in the other corner of the floor but I didn't want to be that close to the stairwell."

Methos finished burying himself in the Scot's side, more than his fair share of the blanket tucked around his shoulders, and cheerfully fought the usual evening war over who got the covers.  Aidan sighed at last and pulled an extra comforter up from the foot of the bed, draping it over her side and shifting her braid so that it was away from Duncan.  "There.  At least I might not freeze tonight."

The younger man chuckled at that and wrapped one arm tightly around Methos.  "Warm now?"

"Getting there," he purred, the sound muffled both by the cloth partly over his chin and the fact that his mouth was tucked against Duncan's chest.

"Good."  Duncan's other arm tightened around Aidan's waist and she answered with a contented sigh, her own arm thrown across his waist to catch Methos' arm, one leg wrapped up over Duncan's thigh.

Silence fell, and after a few minutes Aidan's attention was drawn by some aspect of the quiet.  Then she realized that, judging by the muscle tension under her arm and the quality of their breathing, neither of the men was drifting off to sleep.  "Loves?  What is it?"

"About Marc?"  Duncan's voice was thoughtful as he searched for words to ask something; Aidan's body lay very still against him as she waited to hear them.  "When are you going to contact his family?"

That was not even remotely what she had expected to hear.  "Dhonnchaidh, why in the many Names of the Consort would I do that?  They think he's dead, love."

Now the startled silence came from the two on the other side of the bed.  Methos finally said quietly, "No, Edana, they don't.  Joe says they've had a missing person report out on him for the last two years."

Aidan said nothing for a long while.  Only the steady, deliberate pace of her breath told them she was awake.  She spoke into the dark silence between the bed's draperies at last, saying, "Chris told Marc he'd rescued him from the morgue -- that that was why he had no clothes, no wallet, no other way of life than to go with him.  Do you know, I may yet challenge Owain?" 

Methos shrugged against Duncan.  "Can you take him?"

"Probably," she answered as if the question and its answer were unimportant, then gasped as Duncan's arm cut off her air when it tightened.

"Until that answer is 'of course,' " the Highlander growled, "don't even think it.  Let Damien do it.  Or Xan or Alex if they're up to it, or Connor.  Don't you dare commit suicide on us."

"Dhonnchaidh," Aidan gasped, "I can't breathe."  His arm loosened immediately and Aidan drew a deep breath, then rubbed at her ribs.  "Gods, man, don't do that.  I'm not going to get myself killed, I have things to do -- like spend the next few centuries with you two."

"Good," Methos commented lightly.  "About time you did something hedonistic.  You never take vacations."

"And how many doctorates do you have?" the Irish woman asked sardonically.  "A fine one you are to be lecturing, teacher mine.  Besides, I think two lovers this skilled is hedonism.  That was you two making me scream earlier, was it not?"

Duncan smiled at the rhetorical question and rubbed her sore ribs in apology.  "About Marc's family, though?"

"Gods, yes, we get him back in touch if they just think he's missing," she answered promptly.  "The question becomes, what do we tell them about where he's been?  And how do we tell him we got the information?"

Methos spoke in a contemplative tone of voice that told Edana he'd been plotting.  "For the latter, we tell him Joe looked into it for us.  He already thinks Joe has some hacker friends.  True enough," the oldest immortal smiled.  "Joe does.  Most of them have tattoos, that's all.  For the story, though?  Why not tell them large chunks of the truth and pretend ignorance of the motivations?"

Duncan groaned.  "You're going to use the truth to lie?"

"Would they believe the truth, MacLeod?  Think about it," Methos said calmly.  "Granted, it's rare, but you do occasionally hear about psychos kidnapping some youngster for company and Marc didn't look his age when he was taken.  We simply don't tell them about immortals, or a dagger in a back alley, or that Henslowe brought the boy to Seacouver."

Aidan said thoughtfully, "Well, we all like camping.  Shall we say we found him working his way downstream to civilization and rescued him?"

Duncan found himself helping with the plotting.  "We found him on my island, then?  Marc's seen pictures; he could describe it easily enough.  And if I were lost, I might stay there for a day to get food and rest before heading on into the city."

"Good enough," Methos mused.  "And he got free because Chris -- no last name, I think -- didn't come back after a few days.  Probably fell and killed himself checking some fur traps."

"That certainly happens," Duncan nodded.  "Or got caught in a bad storm?"

"Storm's easier," Aidan pointed out.  "All it takes is a bad fall and broken or strained leg, no shelter... by far the most believable story.  We'll need to slice this whole thing with Ockham's Razor, gentlemen."

"Just remember to leave holes in it," Methos reminded her.  "We shouldn't know the whole story, and since Chris is 'dead,' we 'never will.'  Let his family draw their own conclusions on some of it, then they'll be more likely to believe everything we tell them."

Duncan rolled his eyes, but stayed silent.  Methos caught his distaste for the manipulation over their link and raised up just enough to kiss his lover.  "We can't tell them the truth, Highlander.  So we'll tell them as much of it as we can.  Now, how do we keep him in Seacouver for training?  They'll want him to come home to Philadelphia."

"Bad associations?" Aidan answered.  "And truly, Dhonnchaidh, while I hate to put Marc through it, his body language will make sure his family believes him.  He did have a nasty time, and he doesn't hide his reactions well enough yet that his family won't be able to read him.  And look at him.  He's still a good fifteen pounds underweight.  By the time we get enough muscle on him, he'll probably have a fighting weight twenty or thirty pounds over where he is now.  So we claim we took a couple weeks to get him calmed down and some food in him before checking to see where his family was and what his legal status was."

The Scot sighed and put aside his reservations.  As usual, they were being sensible.  He simply disliked lying.  Once he'd come to that conclusion, though, Duncan turned his mind to the other problem.  "How do we tell Marc?  He'll want to call his family and go home for a little while at least."

Aidan groaned.  "And I've got a meeting with my finance manager tomorrow."

"And you promised to go shopping with Amanda," Methos reminded her. 

"I can talk to Marc," Duncan offered.  "He's going to classes with me, remember, at both the University and the dojo."

Aidan nodded thoughtfully.  "And you and I both understand how much of a draw his family will be to him.  Would you mind, dearest?  It can wait until tomorrow night, if you'd rather."

"No," Duncan said firmly.  "It can't.  He's got a right to know his family thinks he's alive.  I'll do it, Aidan.  How soon are you willing to head to Philadelphia with him?  I assume you're going?"

"Oh, I'm going," she answered.  "Rich, too, possibly, just so Marc's family knows he's got friends his age here.  I'll discuss it with him tomorrow.  Are you two going?"

She could feel them thinking about it, discussing it back and forth across their linked quickenings, although Aidan had no sense of what they were saying except through body language.  At last Duncan sighed and said, "All right, you'll stay here then.  If we leave this weekend, can you proctor my exam, Methos?"

Methos kissed him slowly and thoroughly in apology.  "I think I can manage a class of juniors, MacLeod," he muttered when they came up for air.  "Not a problem.  But one of us should stay, and I'm in the middle of the legal paperwork with Joe to buy out the Seacouver branch of Shakespeare and Company."

Aidan nodded slowly.  "And Marc's family might not think a gay couple is suitable company for him."

"There's that, too," Methos said calmly.  "This is a very close-minded century we're in.  But I don't want to leave Joe in the lurch, either."

"Tweaking the Watchers' collective noses?" Aidan asked curiously. 

He shrugged and said, "Just giving Joe a chance to do what he thinks needs to be done instead of being completely reliant on their money.  With the purchase providing some capital, he can afford to hire Mike as bar manager and bring in another bartender.  At that point Joe can devote his time to playing, which brings in more money."

Duncan snorted at his lover's attitude.  "And the fact that the man will be happier is completely accidental, I'm sure."

"Would I deliberately try to make Joe's life easier, MacLeod?"

The Highlander chuckled.  "It's too dark in here for you to try the wide-eyed innocence, my friend.  You're being altruistic, give up and admit it."

Methos nipped him sharply on the shoulder.  "Give me the middle of the bed and stop insulting me.  Good night, Highlander.  Good night, Flame Child."

Aidan snickered.  "Oh, you are annoyed, aren't you?  Good night, Magister."  She held the covers up as Duncan climbed over Methos, then tucked herself against her teacher's chest when he curled up, his back to Duncan's chest and her back to Methos' chest.  "Dream well, you two." 

Despite her ironic words, Aidan pulled Methos' hand up to her mouth and set a kiss in his palm.  He caressed her cheek lightly, and dropped her braid over her shoulder.  His lips ended up against the nape of her neck, and she took his kiss down into sleep with her.

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 24

Marc grinned at the crowd of graduate and undergraduate students clustered around Duncan's desk even though the class was officially over, and found himself making bets on who would make the most obvious pass.  He lost in the end.  The redhead just wasn't nearly as blatant as the blond graduate student -- Stephanie, he thought he'd heard her called? 

At last the young Italian decided to take pity on his teacher's lover, and walked over to grab one handle on the box of worked silver pieces.  That and a pointed comment or two should get the idea across that yes, they really did need to leave.  "Duncan?"

The Scot turned to him with carefully concealed relief.  "What's up, Marc?"

"We're going to be late for lunch with Aidan."

"Oh, he won't mind, will he?"  Stephanie almost kept the irritation out of her voice. 

Marc said in a carefully amused voice, "Oh, I think she might.  It's Duncan's turn to buy."

Duncan repressed the grin twitching at his mouth, and answered, "Damn, you're right.  All right, let's get moving. Anyone who still has questions, I'll be in my office this afternoon from two 'til four."

Stephanie glared at Marc and whispered softly, "I'll get you for that."

Marc's eyes narrowed and his Italian temper rose up, barely throttled by conscious will.  With a deliberately insulting thoroughness he looked her up and down, then shook his head and turned his back on her.  "Some people," he muttered sotto voce, "have egos the size of Mt. Hood... but not nearly as lovely."

"What did you say?" she hissed.  Her hand rose as if to grab his arm, but then she stopped, unwilling to start a public scene she might not win.

Marc turned back and took two steps toward the blonde, backing her away from Duncan and toward the classroom desks.  Very softly, he said, "Lady, if your inside matched the outside, you'd have no problem getting whoever you wanted.  But you're just notching your garter belt, so go away."

"Some people," Stephanie said poisonously, "actually go to classes.  What are you doing here?"

"Some people," Marc answered in a silky voice as he leaned in toward her, "already have degrees and professional accreditation.  I'm a friend of Duncan's, having lunch with him and Aidan today.  And you know something?  You've got a quick mind, and a lovely face.  I wish to God your attitude lived up to them, because I bet you'd be interesting to talk to.  But conversation with you is like talking to a viper, wondering if it's going to bite.  Have a nice life, Stephanie."

"Who the hell are you to judge?  You're younger than I am," she snapped.

He looked her over.  "Maybe by a year... but it was a rough year.  Grow up, Steph.  Things -- and relationships -- are worth what you pay for them.  Nothing's free."  Without another word, Marc ignored the fuming woman behind him and went to help Duncan take the antiquities out to his car.

The Scot had been careful to keep talking to the other students still there so that all parties could pretend to ignore the tongue-lashing Marc had decided to deliver.  This ought to be an interesting story at lunch, though.  That had been downright vicious, which didn't quite fit with what the Highlander had seen of Marc's manners up until then.

Once at the T-bird, Duncan asked in amusement, "You don't really think we're meeting Aidan, do you?"

Marc shuddered.  "I'd rather not.  She's having lunch with Amanda, and those two together is really more than my luck's good for, Duncan."

"That's the truth," the Scot laughed, dark brown eyes gleaming with merriment.  "So -- soup, sandwich, burger, what?"

"Whatever," Marc shrugged, "just plenty of it.  I was in such a rush after we got in late from running that I forgot to eat breakfast."

"Meaning Aidan did, too."  Duncan started the engine and asked, "Chicken salad sandwiches and mushroom soup sound all right?  There's plenty of food at the loft and it's quick."

"Oh, the soup Adam fixed the other night?  Yeah, that sounds great."  Marc sat back against the seat and said more quietly, "Does it bother you to have me tagging along?"

Duncan waited until a traffic light stopped them, then turned and looked at the other immortal.  "No, it doesn't.  You're good company, Marc.  We don't see you as just 'Aidan's current student,' so don't you start doing it.  Aidan's commitments are a bit more irregular than mine were when I was running the antiques store.  But I don't mind helping out."

Marc nodded as they accelerated again.  "Yeah, Rich told me he lived with you and helped run the place.  Said he couldn't figure out at the time why you took him in.  Who's Sir Lancelot?"

"That's what he calls my kinsman, Connor," Duncan chuckled.  "Do you understand why we're all keeping a close eye on you, though?"

"Because Aidan's just now letting me use a live blade again?" Marc asked bluntly, slouching into the seat of the T-bird.

"Because we don't want you fighting yet," Duncan said seriously.  "This way one of us can take a challenge if it comes up.  Most of what Henslowe taught you was wrong, Marc.  There are well-known counters to most of what you already know."

"And you don't think I'd win," the younger immortal said flatly.

"At the moment it would take a miracle.  How blunt do you want me to be?" Duncan asked.

That drew a soft laugh from the young Italian.  "Are you kidding?  Be blunt, Mac, I'm used to it.  You should have heard my father lecturing me when I'd done something dumb."

"That's part of the problem.  You're still confused over your family, the Game, who to trust.  If your mind's confused, your blade will be too.  At this point only a headhunter would be challenging you; he isn't likely to have that problem.  He already knows what he wants and what he's willing to pay to get it."

Marc brought his hands up, his fingers intertwined and forefingers steepled against his lips.  "So that's why Aidan wants me to start meditating every night?"

"The more centered you are within yourself, the more likely you are to win a fight and to survive the quickening.  The older immortals don't really have that problem.  They've been themselves for so long, they don't really think about it anymore.  Sometimes that's fine; sometimes it makes them hidebound."

The younger man considered that all the way up to the loft apartment over the dojo and during the time it took to warm up the soup and assemble the sandwiches, only muttering an occasional distracted request for the lettuce or some plates.  "Okay," Marc said at last, "I'll start working on it."

Duncan nodded to him.  "Good.  Right now, though, sit down and have a beer.  We need to talk about something important."

Marc raised an eyebrow in surprise.  "What, I look like Adam?  I don't have to have a beer with lunch."  He took the proffered bottle anyway, wrapping a long-fingered hand around it.  "What's up?"

"Do you understand about clans?" 

"Sort of," Marc said cautiously, attention riveted now despite his sprawling position in the kitchen stool.  "Sort of like extended family, right?  I mean, it's like what I'm used to, where you've got all the brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and what have you all in one area.  I mean, hell, my part of Philly you couldn't walk into a store without finding out that the clerk's grandmother was third-cousin to your stepsister, you know?  Or that her great-uncle was a school rival to your grandfather."

Duncan laughed as he made up sandwiches.  "God, that sounds familiar.  Yeah, something like that.  Where everyone is connected to everyone else, like it or not -- and sometimes you didn't, but they were by God yours and you defended them against the world if it came down to it."

Marc's answering smile had the dreamy quality of a fond memory.  "Oh, yeah, like the time I got a black eye over my cousin Beth.  And then she got mad at me for not giving him one, too, and kicked him in the shins at recess the next day."

"Here, Muhammad Ali, have some lunch," the Scot chuckled as he pushed a bowl of soup over.  "How old were you?"

"Oh, ancient," Marc laughed, eyes focused on the present again.  He picked up the spoon as he answered, "Say, seven?  Eight?  Why?"

"You and Aidan and I have a lot in common," Duncan said slowly, ignoring the food in front of him as he carefully chose the words to try and make sense to the younger immortal.  "Our friends and family are a weakness, because enemies can use them against us, but they're what we draw strength from, too.  Why we get up in the morning, why we practice with weapons every day.  Clan, or family, or network, whatever you want to call it, the three of us need it."

"And Rich?" Marc asked hesitantly.  "Or Adam?"

"They make close friends, but... not as many.  Rich grew up on the streets; he still depends mostly on himself.  Adam is one of the most self-sufficient people I've ever met, by habit more than inclination I think."

Marc nodded, food forgotten as he listened.  "He doesn't trust many people, does he?"

"No," Duncan said grimly, "he doesn't.  He's never been given much cause to.  But your family is important to you, I think."

Marc accepted the change back to topic, although the thought of his family hurt like a knife in the heart.  The wry thought crossed his mind that that wasn't a figure of speech, not to him at least.  He knew exactly what a blade through the chest felt like; it had hurt less than the realization he could never go home.  "Yeah, they are.  Were, I guess.  I can't contact them."

"Put your spoon down, why don't you?" the Scot asked.  Worried amber eyes met his for a moment, then Marc did as he'd been told.  "Aidan says your family thinks you're dead.  Did you tell her that?"

"Well, when a body gets checked into the morgue...."  Marc tried for a flippant tone and made it.

"You didn't."  Duncan didn't try to pull the punches.  "Your family has a missing person report out on you, Marc.  Joe has some hacker friends; they checked for us."  Across the counter from him, the young black man froze in place, hands motionless, restless eyes stilled, barely breathing from the looks of him.  "Adam and Joe both thought that if Henslowe had lied to you about the rules of the Game that he might have lied about other things.  He did."

"I'm not dead?"  The words came out in a shaky voice and Marc didn't care.  "I can go home?"

Duncan said quietly, "You're not officially dead, no.  It hasn't been seven years.  And you can go home.  But you need to think about some things."

Marc paused, part of his mind afraid that Duncan was going to yank this away from him as Chris would have, terrified by the possibility.  Most of his mind kept repeating, _I can go home.  I'm not dead, I can go home._

The Scot went on, "The reason I'm telling you is because we didn't want to make you wait to hear this.  We just pieced together the facts and the different stories last night and Aidan's busy all day.  I do understand how you feel, Marc.  I remember what it was like going home to the clan, even if only for a little while."  He paused to see if Marc was listening and smiled at the stunned look on the other man's face.

"Earth to Marc.  You in there?"

Slender, long-fingered hands wrapped tightly around the edge of the counter as Marc said quietly, "I can go home.  Oh, God.  My mother...."

"You can," Duncan agreed.  "But you need to think first.  What are you going to tell them?  Where were you?  What happened?  Why didn't you call?  Why are you in Seacouver?"  He watched those questions start to sink in and asked quietly, "Do you want to keep studying with Aidan?  How do you tell them if you do?  What are you going to do if you don't?"

"I...."  Marc took a deep breath, then let it back out.  "God, Duncan, give me a minute to think, okay?"  He took a bite of his sandwich, not really tasting it as he tried to gather scattered thoughts.  A smile cracked his face and he glanced over, saying, "Hey, at least you don't yell at me to come up with an immediate answer."

Duncan gave him an irritated look.  "Compare me to Christopher again and we do some extra sparring before my office hours."

"Oh, God, more bruises," the younger man groaned.  He applied himself to soup and beer industriously, memories of his family flooding his thoughts.

After five minutes of silence broken only by the clink of spoons on bowls, or glass being set down on the counter, Duncan sighed and said, "Would you like some suggestions?"

Marc glanced up, then pushed his empty bowl away.  "Yeah, please.  Did you talk about this last night, then?"

The Highlander nodded, running one hand through loosened dark brown hair.  "Yeah.  First things first.  I assume you do want to get back in touch with them?"

"God, yes!"

That drew an understanding smile.  "I would, too.  Okay, we think we have some ideas on what you can tell your family.  But the question still stands.  Do you want to keep studying with Aidan?"

"Aidan's based....  Oh."  Marc paused, torn now.  "She lives here.  And I wouldn't move again, either.  She's been here -- what?  Ten months?"

"About that," the Scot agreed easily.  "She moved here last May and we finished the major work on the house Midsummer's Eve."

"Ouch.  Eight months, then.  And you live here, too, and Joe."  Marc sighed and said, "And I don't think I'll find a better teacher.  Well, I went to college away from home.  It wasn't this far away, but we'll make it.  It beats being missing."

"That's a yes, then?"

"Yeah, Duncan, that's a yes," Marc said in exasperation.  "Unless she wants to get rid of me?" 

"No," the Highlander answered emphatically.  "She'd be telling you that, not me."

Marc's eyes closed as he sighed in relief.  "Oh, good."

"That's not exactly her style, Marc," Duncan pointed out.  "All right, here's what we came up with...."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 28

Marc gave the last direction, "Turn right here, third house on the right," and fell silent again.  Aidan pulled to a stop three houses past, for lack of other available parking, and looked around thoughtfully.  It was a nice, middle-class suburb, full of 1920s and '30s houses, well-shaded by trees, and full of kids and sleds on a Saturday afternoon.  She glanced at her student and smiled.

"Ready?"

Rich, meanwhile, was staring around him and shaking his head.  "You grew up here?  It looks like something out of 'The Andy Griffith Show,' Marc."  The wide streets with the medians full of huge trees and kids playing in the snow did invite the comparison.

That did draw a reluctant laugh from Marc and he ran one hand through loose black curls, a purely nervous gesture the other immortals knew.  "Yeah, sort of.  Come on, let's go in before Mama comes out to get us."

Neighbors stared as they stepped out of the rental car.  As they recognized Marc, several of them waved and called hellos to him.  He returned them a bit hesitantly, and promised one next door neighbor that he would come over and talk tomorrow.  By then the commotion had drawn attention from his house and people were streaming out to greet him.

Aidan and Duncan watched as Marc was engulfed by people, from a large-boned, now stooped, older woman to a wiry, middle-height man with short, dark curls.  Four young adults swarmed around as well, mid-teens to early twenties, Aidan would have guessed, and two golden retrievers joined the crowd, barking frantically and jumping on everyone.  The two older immortals watched the young man drop back into his life and family and exchanged matching glances of similar memories and regrets.

Duncan wrapped an arm around her waist and Rich moved to stand at his other shoulder.  Sotto voce, the young redhead muttered, "I've got a five that says we don't get introduced for another five minutes."

Aidan whispered back, "I'll take that bet.  Italian manners are usually pretty good."

Four minutes later, Marc finally surfaced from the crowd of mostly dark heads -- although Rich had definitely noticed one of his sisters who was a striking redhead with olive skin. 

"Papa, Grandmama," he said simply, "these are the people who found me." 

The older woman studied Aidan thoroughly, taking in the long trench coat, good sweater, and corduroy jeans she was wearing, the long hair neatly braided into a coronet as intricate as her own, and the arm she had wrapped around Duncan's waist.  The lack of jewelry met with a single nod, and the matriarch of the Scipios conceded her approval.

" _Buon giorno, Signorina_ Logan," she said.  The voice was familiar to Aidan immediately, both from the phone calls of the last few days and from years of hearing similar voices roughened by calling to families, barking out orders, and in general being well-used in more than one language.

" _Buon giorno, Signora_ Scipio," the immortal woman replied in the same language, dropping into rapid Italian.  "Your directions were excellent; thank you."

"You are most welcome.  Dinner will be ready in a little while, and you have yet to meet my daughter-in-law, Marco's mother.  You will all stay to eat, of course?"

Aidan immediately replied, "If it won't interrupt your reunion, of course we will.  May I present my friends?"  Dropping back into English, she said, " _Signora_ Scipio, allow me to introduce Richard Ryan and Duncan MacLeod.  Duncan, Rich, this is Giovanna Scipio, Marc's grandmother."

Duncan took her hand and kissed the air just above the back of it, murmuring a pleasantry in Italian.  Aidan ruthlessly suppressed her smile as Duncan successfully turned on the charm.  Rich just shook his head.  When Giovanna turned to him, the younger immortal caught her hand in both of his and gave a very shallow bow, more an inclination of the torso than anything else, while saying he was very pleased to meet Marc's relatives.

Turning to her assembled grandchildren and children, who had yet to let Marc work his way back over to his friends, she said in a rough voice, "This is how you greet people, not this impersonation of circus performers!  Come and be introduced, hmm?"

Marc's brothers and sisters grinned at each other and her, tugging their older brother and the dogs with them to greet the newcomers.  His father kept a firm arm on his back, beaming the entire time.

"So.  My son, Antonio," Giovanna said proudly and the wiry man turned his smile on the newcomers.  He was at least a head shorter than his adopted black son, and just as obviously Marc had gotten his laconic humor and perpetual lazy smile from his father.  The lines around his mouth had come from smiling, and the grey spiking his hair at the temples suited him.

"Thank you for everything," Tony said simply.  "We can't ever repay you, but thank you."

Duncan shook his head.  "There's no need."

"Say you'll stay for dinner, at least?"  When all three of them nodded, Tony nodded and said, "My other children.  This is Julius." 

The young man who smiled had his father's dark curls and clear grey eyes.  He looked to be twenty-two or so.  "Call me Jay, please."  He had a firm handshake, even with Aidan, which was something of a rarity in her experience with young men.

Tony indicated his other son, saying, "This is Cornelius." 

The other young man was in the last of his teens; he nodded to them, the wide grin that split his face showing a chipped tooth and hazel eyes bright under light brown hair, and said cheerfully, "Everyone calls me Neil.  I'm glad you're here."

"My older daughter, Jocasta," and Tony beamed proudly at her. 

"Only to Papa and Grandmama; everyone else calls me Josie."  The redheaded young woman was maybe a year younger than Neil.  She took her attention off her oldest brother long enough to smile at the newcomers, which had Rich grinning despite himself.

"And this is my youngest child, Delicia.  Lissa, say hello properly."  The young teenager might have been fourteen.  A mass of straight, dark hair fell down her back, and she played with the ends nervously as she met the new people.  Josie unobtrusively pinched her for staring at Duncan too obviously and the younger girl jumped, then remembered her manners and said hello.

Marc grinned at his sisters and said, "These are my friends:  Aidan Logan, Duncan MacLeod, and Rich Ryan.  Where's Mama?"

Josie caught him around the waist to drag him inside.  "Making the salad, of course.  Come on, Marco, she's dying to see you but the lasagna's in the oven and she didn't want anything to burn."

"Hey, the suitcases," he protested as his sisters started to drag him off.

Jay shook his head and called, "Go see Mama, big brother, we'll take care of everything."  He walked straight to where his father was standing with Duncan and Rich and said simply, "We will, you know.  Thank you.  We'd just about given up."

Rich shook his head in admiration.  "Most folks would have given up after the first year."

Neil snorted as he pulled one of the golden retrievers off Rich again.  "Pyrite, behave.  You didn't hear Grandmother and Mama doing the daily novena at Mass, Rich.  They lit candles to saints I'd never heard of before."

Rich raised one questioning eyebrow and hastily offered, "Come on, let's get Marc's bags."

Tony lifted a hand to stop them.  "Won't you be staying with us?"

Duncan said quietly, "We'll come by as often as you like, but we thought you'd like some time with Marc by yourselves.  He's missed you desperately." 

Aidan added softly, "And he needs time with his family.  He's not completely recovered yet."

"He's too thin," Giovanna said grimly.  "Did the man not feed him?"

Aidan looked at the three Italian men still standing there, contemplating Neil, the youngest.  His steady gaze told her that he might be nineteen or twenty, but he was an adult.  She nodded once and answered flatly, "No, a lot of the time he didn't, from what Marc has and hasn't said.  If he was angry with Marc, for whatever reason, your grandson didn't get fed.  A good bit of the time he didn't get sleep, either.  Marc's doing better, he hasn't had nightmares for a week now, but Christopher was...."  The Irish woman paused, then with a slight smile to Giovanna, she continued, "Shall we say that I don't believe his parents were married?"

Giovanna's eyes narrowed with anger of her own, but she could taste the rage off the three adults who had brought her Marco home, her dark grandson.  So, this was not some made-up story to cover up worse doings!  Someone truly had kidnapped and abused her baby.

Jay said bluntly, "What the hell -- pardon me, Grandmama -- did he do to Marc?  Marc says he's been with you for three, four weeks and he's still too thin, not that Marc ever looked like he could stand up to a strong wind.  Did that bastard hurt him?"

"Jay, language."

"Grandmama, you always told me to call something what it is.  Anyone who'd kidnap and starve my brother is a bastard," he answered bluntly.  "I'll take it up with Father Sean if you like, but that's how I feel."

Aidan sighed, trying to figure out how to answer that one, and to her surprise Rich stepped in.  "He beat him up a bunch of times," the young redhead said.  "Some broken ribs, maybe his arm once I think, but nothing bad enough to lose him teeth or do permanent damage.  I think Chris was being careful.  Marc wasn't raped, if that's what you're worried about."

Tony sighed in relief and his shoulders slumped as the tension fell away.  He clearly hadn't even wanted to ask, but just as obviously, he'd been worried.  No great surprise; if the man had been crazy enough to kidnap his son, what else had he been mad enough to do?

Neil nodded, willing to take Rich's blunt certainty at face value for the moment.  "Good.  Now we don't have to ask Marc."  Behind him his grandmother crossed herself.  She stayed out of the conversation, however, and let her grandchildren ask the rude questions she wanted answered.  "Nightmares?" Neil asked quietly.

Aidan nodded.  "He's been up at two or three in the morning making himself coffee or hot tea a few times too many.  Nightmares."

Tony shrugged and said, "Coffee we have.  And plenty of people in the house who will get up and have a mug of something with him and tuck him back in bed afterwards."

Rich was down on one knee, ruffling the fur on a golden retriever and being slurped within an inch of his life.  "He's doing better, honest.  He went on a double date with me last week and didn't have any problem with the crowds."

"Marc?  Have a problem with crowds?"  The disbelief in Neil's voice was obvious.  "You have got to be--"  A quelling glare from his grandmother stopped him in mid-sentence.  "Oh.  Sorry."

Duncan said quietly, "He was away from people too long, that's all.  He's getting better.  An ER doctor who's a friend of mine checked him out:  no mis-set bones, no missing teeth, no permanent damage."

Aidan added, "We've put ten pounds back on him in the last few weeks.  It was mostly exhaustion and lack of food.  He'll be all right eventually, but it's going to take awhile."

"Anything else?"  Tony asked bluntly.  "You seem to know how to handle this."

The two older immortals glanced at each other, then the Irish woman said quietly, "For most of our lives people have been bringing me or Duncan problems to solve.  We're simply used to it.  Marc needs regular food, a safe environment -- and by that I mean one where he feels safe, regardless of how secure it is or isn't -- and... calm, I suppose would be the best word for it.  He isn't as bad as he was when we found him, but he'll still flinch away from harsh words or a raised hand."

Rich added grimly, "Especially from a man.  Women yelling doesn't bother him as much."

Tony's eyes narrowed, glinting with rage.  Beside him, his mother's lips tightened to a thin line.  "I will confess to the Father," she snapped, "that I hope this man goes where he deserves.  Are you sure this Christopher is dead?"

Duncan studied the people in front of him and threw one small part of their plan away.  In a careful, intense voice, he stated, "He won't be bothering Marc again.  Ever."

Giovanna stared at the Highlander intently, then she stepped forward and put a hand on each shoulder to pull him down.  She kissed him firmly on the mouth, then once on each cheek.  In Italian she said, "You are a good man.  Thank you." 

Duncan said softly, "I won't take credit that isn't mine.  A friend of ours... took care of that problem.  I'll give him your thanks, though."

"Why isn't he here then, hmm?" Giovanna asked.

"Business back in Seacouver which couldn't be put off," Aidan answered simply, but she let her tone indicate that the topic was concluded so far as she was concerned.

Giovanna nodded once and turned to look at her son and grandsons as she continued in English, "That discussion is closed.  Forever.  Get Marco's bags."

"We're keeping you out in the cold," Tony tacitly agreed.  "Come inside and meet my wife, please, all of you."

Aidan handed the car keys to Neil, so that he and Rich could get Marc's luggage.  Tony looked at her thoughtfully and said, "Where did our Marco get clothes and bags?"

Duncan shrugged and said, "Bread on the waters, probably."

At the same time, Aidan smiled and replied, "Oh, here and there.  Mostly there.  The subject is not open to negotiation, Mr. Scipio."

"Tony," he said firmly.  "And if you have put out money on my son--"

"The subject is closed, Antonio," Aidan cut him off in flawless Italian.  "Anything I've done for Marc has been of my own will and not for purpose of repayment.  I'm not poor and I have never minded helping a friend shoulder burdens too heavy for one person alone.  Enough."

Giovanna rested one hand on Duncan's arm as they walked up the stairs to the house.  "She is a stubborn woman, your friend."

"You have no idea," Duncan answered ruefully.  "Don't bother trying to pay her back; Aidan would just take the money and set up college funds for Josie and Lissa.  Her 'no' is made out of granite."

Rich, who was standing behind them with Marc's bags, said cheerfully, "Oh, sort of like your head, huh, Mac?"  The Scot just laughed.

Once inside, the three visitors hung their own coats up, then walked to the fire to get warm.  Lissa came over and said, "Would you like coffee?  Or there's plenty of hot tea, I just made some for Marc and Mama."

Aidan had her hands wrapped around a thick mug full of hot tea with honey and lemon when Marc pulled a tall, blond woman into the living room and said, "Mama, these are my friends."  Rich looked up from the skinning knife Neil was showing him and frankly stared.  Aurelia Scipio was an inch or so taller than her husband and she had a regal beauty that her two daughters might yet grow into, born partly of a striking bone-structure that was aging very well and partly of internal composure.  Her hazel eyes were warm and that warmth spread to encompass the three newcomers in her house as she was introduced to them.

"I'm very glad to meet you all.  Rich, Neil and Jay can share a room if you'd like to stay over."

Rich glanced at Marc and something in his friend's face told him that would be a good idea.  Besides, one of the older immortals needed to stay here.  "I'd love to, Mrs. Scipio, but I can stay with Marc instead of bouncing Neil or Jay.  A sleeping bag on the floor is nothing new to me."

Marc said promptly, "That'd be great, but I think we can do a little better than that."

His two brothers glanced at each other and at Marc, then grinned.  Jay said, "Come on, big brother, let's move that day bed into your old room, then.  It's in Josie's room now, but that's no big deal, right, sis?  Rich, want to give us a hand?"

"After dinner," Aurelia answered over Josie's cheerful, "Hey!  I need to clean it off first!"

A quick glance lowered her daughter's volume as Aurelia went on, "But yes, that will work.  Aidan, Duncan, I hope you like lasagna."

Aidan smiled at her hostess.  "If that's the wonderful smell in the air, I'm sure we will.  Can I help with anything?"

"No, it's all done.  Come and eat."  Children and dogs were shooed around impartially as food was put on the table.  Aidan bowed her head with a good grace to the blessing Tony offered and conversation flew over who was doing what in school, what Seacouver was like, how Scipio Builder Supply was doing, and what Marc had been studying while he was... resting.

That last topic brought the conversation to an uneasy halt until Marc said bluntly, "While they've been taking care of me, you mean, Papa?  Aidan's been teaching me finance; Duncan's been teaching me one of the martial arts called aikido.  Rich helped me get my motorcycle license last week.  And I've been studying French on my own."

His mother stifled a smile against one hand as her mother-in-law muttered, "Just like your grandfather.  Never the polite phrasing, the easing into a discussion.  Boom!  You drop the thing on the table like a dead fish or a brick.  If my Gregorio was here!"

Marc grinned at her and said, "If Grandfather was here, he'd be saying, 'What, we can't discuss family among family?  Spit it out, boy!' "  His voice dropped and the accent grew even thicker, hands waving and his younger sister ducking automatically.

"It's good you are home, Marco, but you are still as blunt as ever."

"Well, Grandmama, that's why Jay is going into law instead of me," Marc answered firmly.  "At least, I hope you're still thinking about law, little brother."

"I start this fall," Jay grinned.  "Already accepted at University of Chicago."  With that the conversation started up again and Marc dug into his dinner gratefully, glad it had slid away from him for the moment.

Aidan and Duncan were sorry to leave when they finally did.  For the two clan-raised immortals, it had been a pleasure to be swallowed up in children and dogs, cooking and clean-up and family gossip, spats between teen-agers and heated discussions over just who, exactly, had gotten the last piece of yesterday's chocolate cake.  Both of then had settled into the flow of the family with no problems at all.

Rich was looking a bit overwhelmed by the sheer volume of noise and the loving arguments back and forth.  He'd held up well, though, playing with the dogs, moving furniture around, and discussing Italy and Spain with Giovanna.  His awed respect of her had changed to a more subtle courtesy as they argued over why he wasn't in school instead of racing bikes and picking up a living here or there.

He'd finally resorted to saying that he was young and sowing his wild oats now to get them out of the way.  She had nodded, smiling, and gone off into reminiscences about her Gregorio and Rich had listened quite happily to stories of mischief, taking notes.  Duncan had grinned at Aidan, murmuring, "He sounds like Fitz."

"Oh, Gods," she whispered, "Fitz was in Italy for a while, wasn't he?"  Then Aurelia had asked her something and they dropped that topic in favor of a discussion on the current NBA standings.

At last, though, still stuffed from lasagna and tiramisu, Aidan and Duncan were escorted back out to the curb.  Jay and Tony walked with them, partly to get Rich's bag, and in part because they were still settling plans for the next day.  Tony hugged them both at the car, asking, "So, we will see you for lunch, and possibly you'll come to five o'clock mass with us?"

Aidan smiled and shook her head.  "I'll stay and help with dinner, but Duncan, feel free."

Jay raised an eyebrow and said, "We don't mean to push.  Not Catholic?"

She simply answered, "No, I'm afraid not.  However, this way Aurelia can go, too."

Duncan commented quietly, "I'd enjoy it.  We'll see you all tomorrow.  Don't let Rich eat you out of house and home before we get here."

Tony laughed at that.  "As if my Marco hasn't cleared out your kitchen, hmm?  Which of you was he staying with?  I haven't been quite sure."

The Irish immortal laughed and said, "My house is actually divided into several sets of living quarters.  Rich rents out the basement and Marc's been living on the fourth floor.  So I suppose he's staying with me.  It's actually a place of his own, though."

Jay gave her a respectful look.  "That must be some house."

Duncan rubbed his back ruefully.  "We refinished a storehouse for her.  Four floors and a basement, and I don't know what was worse, replacing all those window frames or refinishing that much hardwood."

Tony whistled under his breath.  "How much square footage?"

Aidan looked thoughtful, then said, "Of hardwood?  Ten thousand square feet, give or take a little.  Four floors, fifty by fifty.  The basement is almost as big, call it forty-five by forty-five, packed earth covered with concrete and water sealed, set for drainage.  And actually, Duncan, I thought sandblasting that much brick was much worse than the windows."

Jay shook his head in admiration.  "Big project.  Sounds like a great place, though.  How many other tenants?"

"Just the three of us," Aidan said calmly.  "I work on the first floor and live on the second.  We set up the third floor for workouts, since Duncan teaches martial arts when he's not teaching art history."

"You still owe me and Adam for all the help with that place," the Highlander groused.

Aidan rolled her eyes and groaned theatrically, which made Tony laugh.  "And how many dinners have I made you since then, hmm?  And how much help have I given you with your projects?"

"It's the principle of the thing," Duncan answered smugly.

"You sound like Adam!"

"I should; I'm taking his side on this."

Jay grinned and said, "Who's this Adam?  Your friend who couldn't come along?"

"Mm-hmm," Aidan grinned.  "He's an old friend of ours who tries to claim that the best things in life include lounging on a couch with a beer."

"Someone else's couch and someone else's beer," Duncan added, trying to sound aggravated and only managing to sound fondly amused.

Tony said quietly, "This is the friend who... dealt with this Christopher?"  At the sober nods that received, he asked, "He's a friend, though?  Not someone you... owe a favor to, now?"

"He's the best friend we have," Aidan said simply.  "It wasn't done as a favor, but because we all thought it needed to be done and he was the one who handled it.  Duncan or I would have, given the chance.  Adam was simply there first."

Both the Scipios reappraised her at that.  A slender, well-educated woman with the wit and courtesy to handle both Jay's college jokes and Grandmama's Old World manner, and she would have killed Christopher?  And Duncan saw nothing odd or unbelievable in that statement, and hadn't denied that he would have killed the man given the chance?

They traded glances, some family communication that finally ended when Tony said firmly, "He's welcome in our house.  Make sure he knows, please."

"We will," Aidan answered gently, not pushing to understand.  Marc had predisposed her to trust these people and nothing in the evening had changed her mind.  She glanced at Duncan, then promised, "And we will see you for lunch tomorrow."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 29

Aurelia spoke without looking over her shoulder.  "Who'll run down to the store?  We're out of milk."

"I'll get it, Mama," Marc replied without thinking, never glancing up from the Monopoly game in progress in the kitchen.  Rich felt the tension jump in the room as memories of Marc's disappearance washed across people's faces and were sternly repressed.

"Let me grab my coat and I'll come, too," Rich said cheerfully.  "I've been inside all morning."  Aurelia gave him a grateful smile and the young redhead murmured, "De nada," as he went by.

Marc glanced over at his friend as they walked down the sidewalk.  Four houses down, he finally asked, "What was that all about?"

"They're afraid you'll vanish," the former street punk told him.

"Oh."  After a few more paces Marc muttered, "I should have thought of that."

"Nah, you're supposed to be enjoying your family.  I'll keep you out of trouble, from my position as the more experienced of our kind."

The slender black man grinned at his friend, and the mischief on his face told Rich he had just walked into something.  "Well, you are the one who's known Duncan and Adam longer.  And you didn't seem to mind letting me lead that dance...."

Rich laughed as he wrapped an arm around Marc's shoulders and threw him into a pile of snow.

"Hey!"  Marc didn't try to get up; he just scooped up a handful of snow and threw it back at Rich, and the conversation broke down into a scuffle in the snow-drift.  After a couple minutes, though, Rich had him pinned in a lock Duncan had shown him a year or so ago.

"Give?"  He sounded completely cheerful and Marc laughed.

"Just this once.  'Cause I could get you off, but my reputation's taken enough of a beating."

Rich pulled him up and dusted him off.  "Come on, let's get the milk before your mom worries."

~~~~~

Aidan settled into the kitchen with a book and some water to watch over the dinner.  It frequently amused her to read history and see what the author had gotten right or wrong.  Occasionally she was frustrated not to be able to correct stupidity, but more often it was simply funny.  Tonight, however, she was enjoying a new translation of Homer's _Odyssey_ that Marcus Constantine had recommended and keeping a careful eye on the loaves of fresh bread in the oven.

Both dogs were sound asleep near the stove, worn-out by the afternoon's snowball fight.  Aidan had wondered if Marc would be exhausted, too, but his family seemed to be rejuvenating him.  She got up long enough to check on the cauliflower, then sat back down.  To her surprise, Giovanna came and sat down as well before she got more than a paragraph into it.  One eyebrow raised, the Irish woman asked, "Weren't you going to Mass?"

"I can go tomorrow morning," Giovanna answered with a shrug.  "I wanted to talk to you while it was quiet."  That said, the family matriarch studied her thin, callused fingers where her hands were twined on the table.  "There is something I need to ask you and I don't know how to ask it."

Aidan said softly, "You can ask, Giovanna, but I won't promise to answer."

"I know you have not told us everything.  I do not ask what is left out, because I think perhaps you have a good reason, but what I have to know is why.  Why did you help our Marco?"

"Because he deserved it," Aidan said simply.  "Because I couldn't not help him."

Giovanna considered that, her eyes as dark a brown as Aidan's unbound hair and intent on her thoughts at the moment.  The immortal held her place in her book with one long finger and waited silently for the next question.  The family matriarch studied her for several minutes and Aidan met her gaze without flinching or hiding.  At last, those strong, aged hands closed over Aidan's long, smooth fingers and clasped them firmly.

"You are a good woman, Aidan Logan."  The voice had no doubts, no uncertainty.  "So.  Tell me about this Adam, this man who dealt with that Christopher."

"He's...."  Aidan paused, at a loss for words for once.  "Adam is unique.  He lets so many things slide over him, as if nothing touches him, but for one of his friends -- what few he has -- he will do whatever it takes to keep them safe, or healthy.  Completely ruthless when he needs to be, and never entirely certain he's welcome even among friends."  The Irish woman ran out of things to say, obviously flustered.  Almost grimly, she said, "Ask me to describe sunrise, or the first morning breeze, or... I don't know, sunspots.  I could do that more easily."

"But he's a friend?" Giovanna asked intently.

"Oh, Lady, yes," came the prompt reply.  "He and I go so far back I have trouble remembering when I didn't know him.  He's my best friend.  For that matter, he's Duncan's best friend."

"Rich told us about Duncan and Tessa, that Duncan took in a young thief and made him... more respectable.  I still think Richard should be doing something more than racing bikes for a living."

"Right now," Aidan commented, "that's what he wants to be doing.  He'll grow out of it in his own time.  He's going to be formidable when he does go into business.  Rich has a talent for making deals, for charming people."

Giovanna smiled, which softened her expression from formidable into fond.  "He is very charming, I agree.  And a good friend to Marco.  But Duncan was a father to him?"

"As much as Rich ever had," the Irish woman agreed.  "Rich lived with them for a year and a half, in both Seacouver and Paris.  After Tessa was killed, he stayed with Duncan for another year, and he stills stays with Duncan any time they're in the same city."

"So.  He is a good father; he makes good money with his antiques business.  Why are you and Duncan not married?"

A small part of Aidan's mind laughed, thinking she had just won twenty dollars off Duncan.  He had thought they were safe from that question for another day at least.  Out loud she answered, "He's already involved with someone else."  Drawing a deep breath, she went on, "He's in love with Adam."

Giovanna stared at her, surprised and uncertain she'd heard that correctly.  Then she asked, "Does Richard know this?"

"He does," Aidan said quietly.  "I know, Duncan doesn't seem the type to fall in love with another man.  I'm not sure who he surprised more, himself or everyone else.  But they're perfect together, and watching one light up when he sees the other...."  She shook her head, still smiling.  "It's wonderful."

"So you are in favor of this?" Giovanna asked thoughtfully.

"Yes."

"I will have to meet this man, then.  I must admit, I would have never thought it, but perhaps I simply do not know Duncan well enough.  He loved this Tessa, did he not?"

"Oh, yes, he loved Tessa deeply.  We still keep an eye on Duncan on her birthday.  He never expected to fall in love with another man," came the wry answer.  "Neither did Adam."

"And you?  Were you surprised?"

Aidan shrugged.  "I had an outsider's eye for it.  That made it easier for me to see what was going on."

Giovanna waited while the young woman checked on the ham in the oven, spooning the juices up over it and sealing the aluminum foil again.  That done, she checked the other pots and pans almost by habit, then sat back down and waited for the next question.

"So when are you getting married, then?  You are looking at prospects, I hope?"

Aidan laughed, a merry peal of sound in the otherwise quiet house that brought one of the dog's heads up.  She scratched the retriever behind the ears when he came to sit next to her, saying, "I haven't ruled it out, but it's not a priority for me just yet.  I have time."

"At your age, I already had my Enrico and was expecting Gabriella," Giovanna pointed out sternly.  "Best you have your children when you are young enough to have energy for them."

That dredged up old pains, regrets for children raised but not her own, and Aidan hastily deflected the conversation.  "You still have the energy to keep up with all these children," the immortal answered.  "There's time, Giovanna, and it needs a good man, too.  And with Rich and Marc around, there are days I think I simply missed the younger years and somehow acquired two teen-agers to raise."

That drew a look of complete agreement, and an exasperated wave of the older woman's hands which encompassed the entire kitchen.  "How do you keep them both fed?  Or do they cook for themselves?"

"Oh, Rich can cook.  Mostly basics, but a few dishes he picked up from Duncan or Tessa, too.  Usually I feed both of them, though, and frequently Adam and Duncan as well.  I hate cooking for one."

"Hah!  That is not cooking, it's trying to use up leftovers," Giovanna said practically.  "But you cook for all of them?"

"No, I cook a fair bit of the time because I like to.  But Adam is as good in a kitchen as I am, and Duncan is a superb cook.  We usually settle out over dinner who's doing what the next day, including who's cooking and at which house.  Rich and Marc just want to know that there will be food.  Both of them will help if we ask, but they haven't yet learned to clean up as they go.  It's not always worth it, since the cook doesn't have to do dishes."

That got a smile, and Giovanna commented, "That reminds me of the days when Gabriella lived two doors down and we would discuss on Friday night who was bringing what dishes to Saturday dinner after Mass.  Those were good days.  Tony and his five children, and Gabriella and her four, and me and my Gregorio, and half the time it seemed someone from the church was invited as well.  Those were very good days."

"If we're going to sit and talk, shall I make us some tea?"

"Coffee, if you would," Giovanna said.  "More warming in the cold at my age.  Do you like milk in yours?"

To Aidan's surprise and pleasure, the Italian woman spent the rest of the time until Mass was over talking about her family and what it had been like to come to America from Italy at sixteen.  Aidan simply kept asking and listening with every sign of interest, showing more knowledge of Italy than Giovanna had expected and a keen understanding for what it meant to be in the middle of an extended family.

When the others came piling in from Mass, heading upstairs to change out of good clothes, Giovanna watched regret pass over the younger woman's face.  She nodded and put a hand on Aidan's forearm to catch her attention.  "Soon, _cara mia_.  Start a family soon."

Aidan watched Duncan and Rich come in, still laughing, and said gently, "I already have one."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 30

Aurelia studied her hands intently, trying to find some sense somewhere, to control her own emotions and give her family the unflinching calm she always brought to crises.  _But, oh, this is hard!  To lose my first son again, like this!_

She remembered all too vividly the three years of trying and trying to carry a child to term, the four miscarriages that had hurt so.  She and Tony wanted children so desperately that when they heard the orphanage nearby couldn't place a baby, they adopted him immediately.  There had been a brief family uproar over a black Scipio, until Papa Gregorio roared the lot of them down, saying that the boy would be a Scipio if he was raised a Scipio.  The old man never wavered on that, thank God.

 _But, ah, blessed Mary, why is he leaving again?_

"Marco, why?"

"Because... Mama, I can't.  I can't live here right now.  Every time I walk outside, I look around.   Every time.  I know he's dead, but Philadelphia just... I can't.  I'm so sorry, Mama, but I can't."  Marc was trying not to shake, already too keyed up over the conversation as it was.  _Oh, God, I hate this.  It's not just something I'm saying.  I really am scared to stay here.  I'm such a fucking coward.  He's dead, damn it!  Christopher Henslowe is dead.  Adam took his head...._

His mother's hand tightened over his until he looked up at her, and something in his face brought her around the kitchen table to hold him, rocking him against her body as if he were still smaller than she.  "Shh, shh, easy, Marco.  Hush, _amati_ , hush.  If it is like that then it is like that.  Where will you go, then?  Back to Seacouver with them?  I think they would let you stay.  I think they will worry about you, too, _mio figlio_."

"I know," he got out, his head tucked against her shoulder as the tears burned down his cheeks.  "They will.  But I hate this, Mama.  I grew up here; I shouldn't be scared of my own driveway, my own neighborhood.  I know these streets like the back of my hand, so why do I watch them for new shadows?"

"Because he hurt you," Aurelia said softly, still rocking him against her.  "It happens.  If this is what you must do to be happy, then it is what we will do.  And you will come home for holidays and in the summer, and remember what it is to be happy here, and perhaps eventually you will move home again.  So.  First we must pack your things, and then your father will help us break the news to your grandmother."

"Oh, God, Grandmama.  She's going to hate this," Marc groaned.

"What will I hate?" Giovanna asked calmly.  She had come into the kitchen to get more coffee before starting on the mending; now it seemed that worn socks and torn jeans might not be all that was in need of repair.  "Marco, are you all right?"

"Grandmama... I'm not staying."

Dark brown eyes studied him without surprise and with no censure for the tears still visible on his face.  "No, _mio coure_ , of course not.  You are grown now, and the nest is too small for you.  And I think you wish to stay with these new friends of yours, yes?"

"You don't mind?" came the relieved question as Marc scrubbed the back of a hand across his cheek.

"Of course I mind, boy!  You're a Scipio!  And your father's oldest, of course I mind.  But if you have to leave, then you have to leave."  His grandmother regarded him with the fierce glare that had always cowed everyone in the family except her husband.  "You were always the most stubborn of my grandchildren, Marco; you will be back because you will not let this Christopher win.  Yes?"

" _Si_ , Grandmama."  Marc traded that same raptor's gaze with his grandmother.  "No one beats the Scipios."

"No, Marco, they don't," she agreed with him, proud that one of her grandchildren had finally grown to meet her challenges.  "The mending can wait.  This, I think, cannot.  Very well, you two, let us go and see what we must ship to Seacouver.  Perhaps a few of us should drive out and bring most of it, say over the school recess next month, or for summer break if you can wait that long, Marco." 

The idea of Giovanna Scipio face to face with Adam Pierson brought a grin to Marc's face.  " _Si_ , Grandmama, that would make more sense.  But it would be nice if we could ship some of my clothes and books out, too."

Aurelia smiled, holding her own regrets and griefs close within.  "Ah, you mean those old jeans you wouldn't let us throw out, and your mystery collections?"

"And my suits, Mama, and my architecture books, and my magazine collections...."  Marc growled and teased with his mother, knowing she hated this and grateful that Aurelia Scipio never made things more difficult than they had to be... or any easier than necessary, either.  He didn't envy Aidan and Duncan the inquisition that was surely headed their way. 

His mother would insist on knowing everything:  where Marc was going to live; what the job market in Seacouver was like; what, exactly, the relationship between Aidan and Duncan was;  who was feeding him and Rich; and a thousand other details Marc hadn't even thought of yet, but she had.  Oh, yes, inquisition was definitely the right word for it.  The newest immortal found himself working out the details for the popcorn concession as they started sorting out his room and discussing the stored boxes in the attic.

~*~*~*~*~

  


Day 31

Adam met them at the airport with the Range Rover and looked almost amused at the extra luggage.  "Amazing.  How did you manage this one?  Amanda was here in Seacouver."

Aidan shrugged.  "Brought back a few of Marc's personal possessions.  Where is Amanda?"

"On her way to Greece, I believe, at least she was muttering about Mykonos.  The cold and damp finally got to her."

Duncan threw his lover a wary glance.  "And?"

"And she got tired of ranting and raving about 'Who's Erin?'  It was fairly amusing, though.  Joe didn't tell her anything, and neither did I.  Expect to have your ear bent, MacLeod.  How was the flight?"

Duncan shrugged as they waited to collect their luggage.  "Long.  Boring.  O'Hare is as bad as ever."

"Some things never change," Rich sighed.  "I'm starting to really hate that airport."

Methos glanced at Marc who had remained silent through the greetings.  "That tired, Scipio, or nothing to say?"

Marc shrugged and answered quietly.  "Nothing to say.  Thanks for covering things so that Duncan could go."

"You're welcome," was the calm reply.  "I see you survived the family reunion.  Or did they steal your tongue?"

That drew a reaction from the young black man.  "Just left my heart, that's all, I'm sure they'll forward it back to me when they notice it on the couch.  Jesus and Mary, Adam, do you ever let up?"

The raised volume drew a grin from Adam and a frown from Aidan.

"Adam--"

"Hush, Aidan.  Nice to see you're intact and awake, Scipio.  Survived the trip, then?"

"No, you're hallucinating.  I'm not really here, it's just a ghost," was the sarcastic answer.  "And I didn't notice that sharing Aidan's bed gave you a leash for her tongue."

Rich stepped back a bit, startled and wary of this unexpected temper.  "You know, you haven't had enough coffee yet, Marc."

"What, Ryan, less than a full pot?  Aidan, unlike you apparently, is old enough to take up for herself, Scipio.  Let us worry about it, why don't you?" Methos continued, pushing to see just when the young immortal would stand up for himself.  Aidan knew what he was doing; it was the only thing stopping her from going after his hide.

Duncan growled, "Adam.  Quit it."

"Dhonnchaidh, stay out of this," Aidan murmured in Gaelic.  "Let's see what Marc does."  That drew a startled glare from the Scot, but she went on, "Hush.  He'll face worse tests than this in the Game.  Time we got a glance at his mettle.  And it's been a month now."  _Methos promised me four weeks; I should have expected this.  And he's right; we have to see what Marc will do._

Marc, meanwhile, looked at Adam coldly before deliberately switching to Italian.  "Look, Adam, I'm sorry both your lovers have been in the City of Brotherly Love for four days, and for all of me, you can drag them off as soon as we get back to the house, since you seem to think that restraint is something for other people.  But put your temper on a leash or I'll call it in to the ASPCA.  They offered to go with me; I didn't ask."

Aidan choked on a laugh as she caught the implied insults, and Duncan's mouth twitched.  Methos raised one eyebrow and replied in Italian as well.  "What, Scipio, measuring my stamina by your own?  I'm a little older.  But the insult was at least original.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  Shall we try sparring with wooden blades in the morning, instead?"

Marc paused, and the exchange settled into a new pattern in his mind as he thought about it.  _Sainted Lady, he was pushing me, just to see what I'd do!  That devious son of a bitch!  And he looks... pleased that I was pissed off and insulting him?  I am never going to figure out these older ones!  Fine, Pierson, you want temper, I'll give you temper.  Idiot._

"If that's the only blade you've got, sure.  Of course, by the time they get through with you, at least one weapon won't be up for much.  So I guess wood will do.  10:30 or so?  Or will you be awake by then?"

Rich watched, not catching the rapid-fire discussion in what he knew was Italian.  Whatever Marc had said, the tone had been deliberately stinging and both Duncan and Aidan were trying not to snicker, grins twisting their mouths.  Methos, meanwhile, looked entertained rather than offended, and faintly pleased, as if Marc had come up with the correct answer despite all expectations.

"I'll manage something," Methos chuckled, switching back to English.  "Welcome home, Marc."

Aidan rolled her eyes and muttered, "Are you two through yet?  At this rate I'll need to pick up testosterone supplements for the both of you."

Rich said plaintively, "No, but could we maybe get some lunch and someone tell me what in hell I just missed?"  _I have got to pick up some more languages!  Like Italian, and Gaelic, and Russian!  Damn, I hate it when they do this._

Duncan passed luggage off the conveyer belt as, true to form, everything arrived all at once and too quickly to be easily handled.  "I think we can handle lunch, Rich.  Here, Adam, make yourself useful and carry a bag."

"I'm always useful, MacLeod."  Methos took the offered bag anyway.  "And Joe said the sandwiches were on him when you all got back, because he needs someone to look at the roof of his house."

Marc rolled his eyes and asked sarcastically, "So did you?"

"I leave such things to the younger members of the group," Adam told him blithely.  "But I will periodically pass up the beer."

Marc shook his head and laughed despite himself.  "You know, you sound like a foreman I worked for in college.  All right, Adam, you bring the Pilsner and we can do this.  So what else did we miss?"

Aidan watched them bantering back and forth and exchanged a smile with Duncan.  "Maybe this will work after all?"

"If anyone can bring out his temper," Duncan chuckled softly, "it'll be the old man.  I think things will be fine.  Come on, let's go catch up."

~*~*~*~*~

  


Epilogue

  


Christchurch, New Zealand -- March

"And in the latest story from Melbourne, Australia," the anchor said somberly, "the tragic murders of John FitzAlan and Jan Urquhart last night closed the chapter on a seamy story of embezzling, greed, and rumored treason.  The once-respected co-owners of F&J Importers were under investigation by both the United States and Australia for smuggling, money laundering, and possible drug-running.  Several charities which have benefited handsomely from F&J are refusing to comment at this time."

"I'll just bet they are.  Who in the fuck donated to them?  We didn't," Johannes snarled, watching.  "Who did this to us?"

The dark-haired immortal reclining on the couch glanced at him and said softly, "Johannes.  Quit pacing.  Our identities there are dead.  Simple enough; we stay out of the Pacific for a while.  Admittedly, it's more difficult to hide than it used to be, but it can be managed."

"Fuck that.  Someone organized this, Owain.  Who?"

Owain snorted derisively at his tall, impatient student.  "That, Johannes, is the precise question we had better answer.  Did Cynthia, or someone in her line, decipher what we're doing?  Or are we under attack from a completely unexpected direction?"

The angry bald man slung a chair around and sat, his arms resting on the backrest, as he considered that question.  "We didn't instigate anything at Christmas; the first forays against us started not two weeks later."

"No, we didn't," Owain agreed, tenor voice cold and clear as he thought.  "But half the line of Ramirez assembled in New York at Christmas.  Nash's party, remember.  Could they have put together enough pieces to find us?"

Johannes frowned as he considered that.  Silence fell around them in stifling mounds, pooling at the edges of the room and choking first their comfort, then their thoughts.  The tall South African stood up again, too restless to remain still, and poured them both shots of whiskey.  Offering one tumbler to Owain, he said grimly, "They must have.  One of them, at least.  That line has never run to idiots, you know that."

"True," Owain mused, thinking rapidly.  "But they do run to fools.  Cynthia would have challenged me.  So would the younger MacLeod, or that hothead, Damien.  We were targeted very precisely -- who did it?"

"And how?"

Owain hissed in frustration, breath blowing the over-long curls off his temples.  In the recent days there'd been no time for personal vanities, such as haircuts.  He'd been too busy staying out of jail long enough to orchestrate their 'murders.'  "I don't know.  They have one computer expert, Damien, but he would have challenged us.  On the other hand, none of them are exactly poor, and expertise can be hired."

"Or this could have been done by mortals," Johannes said thoughtfully.  "Did you notice that Cook Trading benefited every time we had trouble?"

Blue eyes glared balefully across the room at nothing.  "Did they now?"

"They stole the Kennimer Copper contract out from under us, remember.  And the wool deal with Harald's fell through... and Cook had it when the trades came out."

"And the export agreement with Alpine Wine & Liquor in the States," Owain chimed in, still speaking in that ominously quiet, lilting voice.  "Perhaps we are looking in the wrong direction, after all."

"What about Cynthia?" Johannes asked.

"Henslowe will report back or he won't," Owain shrugged.

"You don't really think he'll capture her, do you?  Gwydion couldn't take Cynthia, remember."  Johannes had vivid memories of his 'brother' beating him again and again whenever they sparred.  The smaller man had been very, very fast.

Owain shrugged again, a nonchalant expression on his face as he plotted revenge on his mortal rivals.  "Gwydion faced her and fought.  Christopher was sending in that brat of his first."

"As a stalking horse?" 

"He was of no other use to us.  An honorable little idiot."

"So is Farrell, remember," Johannes settled himself further into the chair as he thought, the light gleaming off his bald head and polished leather boots equally.

"Farrell is harder," Owain said implacably.  "He learned.  This one didn't."

"She's old enough to have seen that trick before."

"Even old dogs fall eventually, and Cynthia is an old bitch indeed.  We'll take her, Johannes.  But shall we deal with the mortals first?  Cynthia will still be here in a month or so."

"And a few of the executives at Cook won't?" Johannes asked pleasantly.  "I think you're right.  About Farrell, though.  I disapprove of using him for this.  How can you be sure he'll fight for us?"

Owain gave him the annoyed look of a teacher whose pet pupil has just publicly claimed that pi equals three.  "Because, Johannes, he gave his word.  And if I bring him to oppose her line... no matter who dies, Cynthia will be hurt.  She's inexplicably fond of him.  Farrell is the only one of my students Cynthia has liked in nine centuries.  Oh, no, we most definitely will take Farrell to the line war.  I wouldn't have him miss it for the world...."  
   
 

  
_~ ~ ~ finis 2/99 ~ ~ ~_   


  


  
_Comments, Commentary & Miscellanea:_   


1 -  Yes, I probably should be ashamed of myself for giving Marc headaches when he meets immortals.  I'm not.

2 -  For the curious?  Aquilla means eagle, and two different Scipios were notable Roman generals.  The elder of them (the grandfather) defeated Hannibal in one of the Punic Wars.

3 -  Aidan's opinions about the Game and its reality or lack thereof, are her own.  I'm not arguing with a woman with a sword who's a hundred times my age.

4 -  Oh, why not, I did this for "[Intermezzo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/291749)."  The Kurgan is, of course, from the original movie.  Grayson is from "Band of Brothers;" Kronos was in "Comes a Horseman" and "Revelations 6:8;" and Xavier St. Cloud was in more episodes than I feel like counting, but he first appeared in "For Tomorrow We Die."  And the comments on the consequences of fighting on Holy Ground are canonical rumor (is that an oxymoron?) from "Little Tin God."

5 -  See "[Intermezzo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/291749)" for an explanation of the trouble the line of Ramirez is having, and for information on line wars check [here](http://rhi.moonlit-eyrie.com/stories/linewarrules.html). 

6 -  I've always wondered why Methos lives in Henleys....

7 -  Ah, _The Thousand and One Nights_.  The accurate, i.e. racy, translation that Sir Richard Burton did of this work was a scandal to the jaybirds during Victoria's reign.  His wife, may she reap what she deserves, burned his notebooks when he died, thus depriving of us of who knows what translations, notes, and ruminations.

8 -  Curare is a South American paralytic poison.

9 -  Rihana of the Silences was trained by Ramirez and disappeared almost three hundred years ago according to the Watchers.

10 -  Of course Joe serves daiquiris.  The man has to make a living, okay?

11 -  Jao?  Ummm....  Tiger Balm with an attitude?  Great stuff for bruises and sore muscles.  It's a Chinese herbal lineament.

12 -  Rich gave Methos a sweatshirt for Christmas saying "Age & Treachery Will Overcome Youth & Skill Every Time."

13 -  For those who don't know, Chilton is the publisher for a popular line of car repair books, titled by car type and year.  For example, _Ford Taurus 1996-8_.

14 -  _Bean amaideach_ is Irish for foolish/idiotic woman.

15 -  In my hometown, there has been a bar called the Library within walking distance of the major University for as long as I've been alive.  Because every student wants to be able to honestly say, "I was just down at the Library...."  (Rhi's note:  it finally closed in 2000, after a thirty-year run.)

16 -  Aidan took exception to the third person address in "[Explanations](http://archiveofourown.org/works/290868)."

17 -  Yes, tai chi and aikido are both soft forms.  Right now, Marc needs to learn coordination and put on some muscle before they start teaching him the hard styles.

18 -  Karl Gustav von Stengel left a broken replica longsword for Aidan as a threat in "[Quarrels of All Kinds](http://archiveofourown.org/works/68342/chapters/90176)."

19 -  Ever wondered why Mac was so carefully neat?  Think about it.

20 -  Alexandrias and Xenokrates studied with Methos in the 2nd century AD.  They appeared in "[Force of Habit](http://rhi.moonlit-eyrie.com/stories/forceofhabit.html)."  Get used to them, folks, the laughing maniacs have taken up residence in my hard drive and are petitioning for citizenship.

21 -  Yes, the story of where and when Connor met Xan and Alex is on the drawing board.  I will admit that it was on the North American continent, and I'll even tell you it was during the first half of the 1800s, if that helps.

22 -  Sun Tzu's Art of War is a military text so admired and so essential that Napoleon carried his copy everywhere, full to the margins with notes and comments made during his almost daily reading of it.

23 -  _Luaidh_ and _amator_ are the Scots and Latin for 'beloved.'  _Muirnin_ is the Irish. _Mo chridhe_ is Gaelic for 'my own.'

24 -  Last time, Amanda interrupted Methos and Duncan; her timing does need work.  See "[Crystalline Patterns](http://archiveofourown.org/works/291190)" for that story.

25 -  Unless I am completely misremembering, the Whoopi Goldberg quote is from "Jumpin' Jack Flash."  Fun movie.

26 -  Zalman King directed the Red Shoe Diaries, an erotica series which ran on Showtime.

27 -  Methos?  Buy Shakespeare & Co in Seacouver?  I mean, just because it gives Joe capital, and consolidates the store ownership again, and gives the ROG an official reason for periodically travelling to Seacouver....

28 -  Rich referred to Connor as Sir Lancelot in the pilot episode, "The Gathering."

29 -  The Italian phrases in this one: _Buon giorno_ \-- good day or good morning.  _Cara mia_ \-- my dear. _Amati_ \-- love. _Mio coure_ \-- my heart.  _Mio figlio_ \-- my son.  _Signora_ and _Signorina_ \--Mrs. and Miss.

30 -  Yes, one of my beta readers pointed out that some of this makes Methos sound like a professional hit man, and that the Scipios took that idea very calmly.  Don't ask me, folks, I just type.  The characters stand over my shoulders and insist, 'No, Rhi, it happened this way....'  When they let me know what's going on, I'll let you know.  (Don't laugh too loudly;  I know perfectly well that I'm not the only one this sort of thing happens to....)

31 -  Joe Dawson is dating Erin Shea, whom Amanda didn't get to meet in New York.  See "[Intermezzo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/291749)," or "The Gathering Darkness," or "Prelude to the Storm."  Erin is currently a Researcher for the Watchers, but she's going to move to the University of Seacouver Linguistics department this fall.

32 -  The Lone Gunmen (yes, of X-Files fame, and they belong to 1013 and Morgan and Wong, not me, damn it!) took care of Owain & Johannes' in "[Intermezzo](http://archiveofourown.org/works/291749)."  The fall-out so far has been impressive.  No, I don't know what charities benefited from F&J's generosity, but I would not be surprised if SETI, NASA, and MUFON are on the list.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Friend of the Family](https://archiveofourown.org/works/784150) by [Gryphonrhi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryphonrhi/pseuds/Gryphonrhi)




End file.
